


No Power in the 'Verse

by ViaLethe



Series: Love Keeps Her in the Air [1]
Category: Firefly
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViaLethe/pseuds/ViaLethe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Having no choice but to feel, River cherishes all the more deeply the ability to act. If only she knew what action to take." </p><p>A study of River, working her way through the complications of falling in love, and Mal, trying very hard to avoid them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Set post-BDM, so everything.
> 
> Pairings: River/Mal, slight Simon/Kaylee and Mal/Inara
> 
> Disclaimer: Words are mine, world ain't.
> 
> a/n: First I fell in love with River, then Mal, then the idea of them together. This is my attempt to do the pairing some kind of believable justice.

She doesn't know when it properly began, this feeling. For so long her mind had been splintered, a wash of memories and tides of feelings that didn't _belong_. And _Serenity_ is a ship that has flowed with love and longing; the steady burning heat of Zoe and Wash, the sunny hope of Kaylee for Simon, and the sparks that flew static between Inara and the Captain. She has felt them all, and spent nights pondering, twisting the emotions in her head in an effort to understand.

Now she is better, not healed, never _healed_ , she thinks, but _better_. Her mind is open to her now, she can separate the thoughts of the _girl_ from the thoughts that are merely _read_. And now, she thinks, she has begun to _understand_ , because this tide rising in her comes from the girl, not a borrowed echo but a true and honest feeling.

The understanding has come by degrees; an analysis of the fluttering drop in her stomach every time he looks her way, a good deal of thought on why his gait approaching the bridge makes her lips curve, questioning her body's worrying habit of growing warm and flushed when he speaks to her. She remembers the reading of these feelings in the past (she can read certain of them now, from Kaylee's bunk, but that involves Simon and she will block it out, she _will_ , because some things even a psychic mustn't know), but these are different, these are _hers_ , whole and actual, and so now she is left with a problem she has not pondered before.

Once you _feel_ a feeling, really and truly, what do you do with it? Having no choice but to feel, River cherishes all the more deeply the ability to _act_. If only she knew what action to take.

***

She tries to talk to Inara about it, once.

They are four months out from Miranda, and _Serenity_ has settled into new patterns, begun to mend herself around wounds that, if still open and raw, are not as gaping as they once were.

 _Desire_ has just begun whispering to River, or just grown loud enough to be _heard_. Normally this would be a topic for Kaylee, who is honest and open and never takes an inquiry the wrong way. But she is so buried in Simon it makes River shy of her, as though to ask Kaylee to ponder on her problems would be an intrusion in a long-delayed sweetness.

So she goes to Inara instead, who is an expert on _wants_ and _feelings_ and the myriad of thorns that River is finding around them.

River has always thought of Inara's shuttle as a place of release. It helps now, as she struggles to make the _thoughts_ come out in appropriate _words_ , to say just what she means and give away no more.

She begins safely enough, she thinks.

“I don't understand love. Of the romantic variety.”

Inara smiles, just slightly, into her teacup. “I don't think many do, _mei mei_. It's a very complicated emotion, and it can manage to muddle even those who are experienced in it. What specifically confuses you about it?”

This is easy enough. Still on safe ground, not venturing into things best left unsaid. “What makes people fall in love? Tried to analyze it, to pinpoint specific characteristics that trigger corresponding emotion. Couldn't locate any logical parameters.”

Inara's smile is wider now, and River knows this means she has said something _logical_ but lacking _sense_. “That's because love isn't often logical. Sometimes people who seem to have the least in common are the most drawn together.” She looks at River, considering, as she gathers up the tea things. “Are you thinking of your brother and Kaylee? It's true they don't seem the most obvious pair at first, but they each respond to something in the other that they need. They enjoy being with each other.”

“And they enjoy physical intimacy with each other.” River wrinkles her nose. “A good deal.”

Inara laughs. “Yes, they certainly do. That's part of love too, of course, and equally inexplicable. The smallest things can trigger desire, and they aren't always what we might predict. It might be as simple as the sound of a voice, or the curve of a body. Any number of things, really. It's one reason why Companions spend so long in training – we have to know how to employ them all.”

River's brow furrows. This is not entirely what she was hoping to hear, though it is sending her mind running down paths she hasn't before considered. Forcing her unruly _thoughts_ back on course, she asks, “Can't it be controlled? Isn't fair of our thoughts to run away with us so, make us feel things we can't order.”

Inara glances sharply over her shoulder at River from the trunk where she is settling the tea set, and pauses before speaking. “Well yes, at times it is possible to control it, or a Companion's job would be a good deal more difficult. But sometimes...” She trails off and shakes her head, but River does not need to _read_ the continuing thought, knows it involves Mal and Inara and the twisted branch of feeling between them. Inara sets it aside with long practice and turns to River with a warm smile. “ _Mei mei_ , are we discussing a... _personal_ feeling here?”

This is more dangerous territory, and River is unsure of her step. “The feeling is mine,” she allows. “Don't know what to do with it. Can't _not_ feel it, but action would be unwelcome.”

Inara sits beside her, and River can feel she is pleased, that she thinks this is _healthy_ and a _good sign_. “Are you certain it would be unwelcome, River? At times love can surprise people. Perhaps you would find more welcome than you expect.” But even as she says this, River can feel Inara's mind cycling through possibilities – she is too polite to ask, but _thoughts_ are not a question. _We haven't been in one place longer than a week since Miranda; it can hardly be anyone off-ship. I've never thought River tended towards females in terms of desire, though I suppose it's possible – she's never shown much sign of desire at all. Surely not_ Jayne _, though that only leaves Mal_ –

Inara glances up suddenly, but River is already rising. “Would be unwelcome,” she says firmly, “by too many to thrive here.”

The danger is too great. She will not speak to Inara again of _feelings_.

Still, the tide of her feeling is overwhelming, and if it cannot be pushed back, then maybe, just maybe, it can be allowed to surge ahead. A small part of her remembers Inara's words – _the smallest things can trigger desire, and they aren't always what we might predict_ – and grows into the glowing core of what she thinks could be called _hope_.

She is abruptly washed out of thought on the catwalk outside Inara's shuttle, as the Captain is heading her way.

“Hey there, little one.” He pauses briefly to smile down on her. “Inara decent for visitors?”

Her core of _hope_ is twisted into sudden _envy_ , and she looks away, across the cargo bay at nothing. “Yes.” Put only facts into _words_ , don't let _feelings_ show, she thinks.

His gaze is already fixed on Inara's door, his mind only barely touching on the girl in front of him. “Good. Need you up on the bridge for a spell. Don't go crashing my boat into any rocks while I'm busy, alright?”

River gives an audible snort; she is a better pilot than Mal and they both know it. “Believe I can handle that, Captain.”

She has no fear that Inara will mention any part of their discussion to Mal. Discretion is ingrained in her, as in every Companion. Still, his visit to Inara creates a hollow of desperation in River that she cannot fill.

She walks away quickly and does not turn, refusing to watch him walk through the door.

River is in love with Malcolm Reynolds, and no power in the 'verse can tell her what to do about it.


	2. Versions of You

Up on the bridge, there is silence, and peace, and River's bitterness fades into the black. She loves flying dearly, loves the shuddering communication with _Serenity_ as the controls hum beneath her hands, loves the focus and _purpose_ guiding the ship gives her.

And lately she has also found herself loving the man who often shares this space.

She knows, of course, that she has had _feelings_ for him since he opened that box in the cargo bay, just as she has had _feelings_ for Kaylee, and Jayne, and Zoe. But at a point that she finds irritatingly imprecise, her feelings for Mal have been transmuted from _Captain_ and _Protector_ into something disturbing, something closer to _Beloved_ and _Protected_.

She sighs, and feels the dinosaurs watching her with _interest_. There haven't been this many longing sighs in their space since Wash had developed _feelings_ for a warrior woman who could crush him like a bug.

She speaks to them sometimes, and through them, to the _memory_ of Wash. They are not wary of her, do not judge her, do not puzzle over her pronouncements and ask her to _please make sense, River_. She finds them better company than some of her shipmates.

“It's not exactly the first time, you know,” she says, mostly to Wash but partly to the dinosaurs. “There was a boy, back on Osiris. One of Simon's friends, came home with him once from the MedAcad. Took time to talk to me, treat me like I was an interesting person, not a little sister. But...” She trails off, frowning. But he'd been Simon's age, too old, and she had been only a _little girl_. “Just like now. Captain thinks of me as a _girl_. But I'm not. You'd know it, if you could see,” she tells Wash.

It's true enough, she thinks. While she will never have Kaylee's softness, Inara's lush curves, or Zoe's firm strength, she has filled out a bit as the need for drugs has lessened and the bits of protein-made-energy essential for building flesh remain where they should. She is a slim, slight figure still, but her body has followed her brain, shaping itself into an adult to match a mind made too old for its years.

“I wish you _could_ see,” she sighs. “Maybe you could tell me what to do with it. You were always good with sex.” She blushes a bit, remembering the times when her mind was a _cloud_ , when she slid into the passions and experiences of others without _intent_ , because she had lacked the understanding required for intent. “Didn't really mean to,” she explains. “I'm sorry I intruded, even if you didn't know.”

She glances slyly at the dinosaurs. “He was pretty good though,” she confides.

“River?” Zoe comes up the stairs to the bridge, looking for someone else but not truly surprised to find River speaking to no one. “Who's good at what?”

River smiles up at her, innocently. “Wash. At everything.”

Zoe is quiet a moment, staring at the empty pilot's chair, and River realizes belatedly that she has _pushed_ , that she has again _intruded_ , searches frantically through the dark sea of Zoe's thoughts for a way to the surface. But Zoe settles herself with a breath and the ghost of a smile, says, “I don't know about that. Man couldn't have picked out a good looking outfit if it was set in front of him.” She looks down at River, _all business, all clear_ once more. “You know where the Captain might be?”

River gives her a _look_ ; she knows where everyone on the ship is, at all times. It is part of being _River_. “With Inara. In her shuttle.”

River is trying harder to stay out of people's thoughts uninvited these days, but Zoe's expression speaks loud enough to make them plain, states that in _that_ case she will be delaying her search for the Captain. “Alright then. We're steady on course?”

“Yes. Should make port in four hours, eighteen minutes and...six point two seconds.”

Zoe raises an eyebrow, turns to leave. “Good. Thank you, River.”

River says nothing. Silently and sadly she tells the dinosaurs that every night Zoe goes to sleep wrapped in one of those Hawaiian shirts that still speak of Wash.

She has shared Zoe's _exhilaration_ in love, secretly holds it as a high water mark in her mind. It is only fair, she thinks, that she should share a bitter portion of her loss in it as well.

***

Inara's shuttle is quiet, still, at peace. This is, of course, scattered to bits with Mal's entrance, as Inara feels the giddy rush of desire honed on the nervous edge of challenge that always colors their conversation.

“Mal. Back to your old habits of barging right in, I see.”

He has the grace to look sheepish. “Well, River said...I mean, I did ask if you were decent. Seemed good enough to me.”

“Yes, just because I was prepared for one visitor _must_ mean I'd welcome anyone who chose to wander in.” Inara hears the edge in her voice, berates herself for it. _Why can't I ever simply_ talk _to this man?_

“Look, 'Nara, if you don't want me here -”

Inara holds up her hand, a gesture of peace. “Please, Mal, let's not do this. Why do we always have to fight?”

For a moment she thinks he means to continue on their set course, to sling barbs against her again, or simply turn and storm out. But after a moment's pause, he sighs and sits, uninvited but not entirely unwelcome. “Hell if I know, Inara. All's I was coming to ask was if you'd made your choice about leaving or not yet. It's been a good while now.”

She hesitates, then sits beside him. “I hadn't, actually.” She takes a breath, finds words sticking in her throat. _Honestly woman, you're trained to be able to say anything with a straight face! Just spit it out_ , she thinks. Summoning up every bit of her tight control, she says, “I think I was waiting for your input, to be honest.”

“My input?” He glances at her, runs a hand through his hair. “I figure it's your choice either way. I ain't got a claim on keeping you here.”

“Damn it, Mal, don't _do_ that. Don't pretend as though you don't know I'm asking you if you'd _like_ one.” She wishes immediately she could take the words back, but they are out there, they have existence and wait on nearly visible tension for a response.

He looks at her again, but instead of the surprise she's expected, she sees tightening anger in his face. “You want me to be honest, then? Fine, Inara, maybe I _would_ like a claim on you. But you tell me, how long would that claim be like to last? Until you ran out of money and needed a new client? Until you got bored with having only one man in your bed? You know I ain't any good at sharing, never have been.”

She clenches her jaw, refusing to look at him, knowing if she does she will flare into outright rage. “And I've never been much good at taking insults. You think I'm a Companion because I'd grow _bored_ with a steady partner? You've always claimed it's my profession you disrespect and not me, but then you make comments like that! What is the matter with you?”

He sighs, rubs a hand over his forehead. “Alright, maybe that was a mite too far. But it don't change the point – I am not a man to share. And you're not a woman who's willing to give herself over to another person.”

She shakes her head, an increasingly bitter resignation cooling her fury. “It's not that, Mal. But what you're asking for – I can't _stop_ being a Companion. It's more than what I do, it's who I am. I've lived my life in the guild in one way or another since I was twelve years old. To give up my entire life – it isn't just a job, it's my _identity_. You don't know what you're asking.”

“Well, seems to me if you truly wanted a person there wouldn't be a thing in the 'verse that could stop you from doing what you needed to be with them.”

She sighs, places a hand over his. “Mal, if I asked you, could you give up _Serenity_ and settle down in the Core for me?”

She almost laughs in the midst of grief, his immediate tension is so obvious. “That ain't the same at all, Inara!”

“But it _is_ , Mal. It's exactly the same. What you do and how you live are a part of you, just as they are for me.” They sit together a moment, joined in silent misery.

“This thing between you and me is never gonna work out, is it?” he finally manages to ask.

She swallows hard, somehow surprised to find tears in her eyes. “No, Mal. I'm not sure if it ever could have. Maybe once, when we were both younger and less...set in our ways.”

He gives a humorless chuckle. “You mean when I wasn't a petty criminal yet.”

“And I wasn't a whore,” she adds wryly.

They are able now to meet each other's eyes again, and she gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “I said once I'd seen too many versions of you to be sure who I was dealing with. I know now that isn't so – they're all you, the better and the worse. And for all the pieces we have that fit together, there are some that would never be in place between us.”

He reaches up, touches the back of her neck, draws her closer until their foreheads rest against each other and she can feel his breath on her skin. “I know there's sense in what you've said,” he whispers. “But I wish like hell it weren't so.”

She gives in then, kisses him for what she knows will be the only time, savoring this one moment as a woman in love. It is, she thinks, both the sweetest and saddest kiss she has ever had. There is silence between them for a long moment, both needing the contact, reluctant to make a final end of it.

She speaks, finally, softly. “I think I should leave the ship as soon as possible. You can drop me at the next port, anywhere I can catch a transport.”

He brushes a tear from her cheek she hadn't even realized was there. “No need for that. We'll take you all the way back to your girls. I can give you at least that much, Inara.”

She takes a breath, wanting only to escape as soon as possible, but finally just nods and smiles. “Thank you.” _What more is there to say?_ She says the only thing she can manage. “I'm sorry, Mal.”

He had risen to leave, but turns back at this. “So am I, 'Nara.” He stands uncertainly for a moment, then disappears through the doorway.

She allows herself a few moments for grief, a final unabated bout of anguish over this man. Then she rises, puts on the impassive face it has taken her so many years to achieve, and begins to pack up the bits of her free, secure, and slightly emptier life.


	3. Close to the Smoke

A week after Inara's departure, River awakens in the dark. It is not time for her to be active, but there's a haze of smoke in her mind suffocating her thoughts, and she seeks out the fire.

On the bridge, the Captain is still, face to the black. He's always been the hardest for her to read, lets off the least emotion. But now, even through his walls and fences, she can read _go away_ as loud as if he'd spoken it.

He doesn't even glance at her as she slips soundless into her chair.

Being ignored fails to bother River; she merely draws her knees up, rests her head, and watches the stars.

Finally he shakes himself into action, flips a switch, checks some screens that will tell him nothing he doesn't already know. “What's got you up here? Ain't your watch.”

She does not turn, has the _instinct_ not to face him head on. “Storm's rolling over.”

He looks out into the clear black, back down at the screens. “Way looks clear enough to me, little one. Why don't you head on back down to bed?”

“Not out there. In there.” She points without looking to his head.

Though she does not meet the glance he throws her way, she _knows_ it holds no warmth.

“I know that you're aware takin' walks in other people's heads ain't a pleasant thing, River. Not for them, and not for you if you keep doing it to me, _dong ma_?”

She shakes her head, refusing to be unbalanced by the accusation. “Didn't need to walk. Thoughts blew all over the ship, got in my eyes. I couldn't sleep with them crowding me. Isn't _pleasant_.”

He is silent for so long she risks a peek through her hair, sees his hands clenched on the controls.

“Don't have to talk about it,” she says, eyes steadily on the black once more. “Sometimes thoughts don't make proper words. I know. Sometimes we have to hold them in symbols and images until they're safe to touch again.”

There's still no response, so she continues to feel her way through the haze. “Sometimes it helps, to have someone there. Something solid to touch on when the images get too real.” She picks out a single star, focuses on it until her vision blurs. The smoke of his thoughts has darkened around her, phantoms of their lost shipmates wandering in the haze. She feels bits of Mal float past with them, as though he's put so much of himself into his crew he's fragmenting as they vanish. Taking a deep breath, she focuses on the core of _hope_ within her to help form words from emotion. “Love doesn't disappear, just because the people did. Stays where they're carried. Have to build it into a foundation, set your future on it.” Thoughts of _love_ pick through her _past_ , create a flash of her parents in her mind; she flinches, brings up an image of _Simon_ to fight it, then _Kaylee_ and _Mal_ and _Zoe_ , until the moment has passed. “Can't let the past bind you. Can't live in it, but you can go through the doors it opens. Just have to keep moving.”

She risks another glance at him, would think he wasn't listening if she didn't _know_ better. “Still have us, Captain. Still have your family.”

His silence stretches on, and she begins to think that she has failed for this night, that Mal still wants to choke on the fires of pain and regret and bitterness within him.

Just as her _leaving_ is about to stray from possibility into action, he finally speaks. “We ever go over port control and landing procedures? 'Bout time you took over landing this boat in places where you gotta ask permission.”

She shakes her head and settles in; there is little about _Serenity_ or the flying of her that she hasn't learned in one way or another already, but that doesn't matter now. Though he's still not looking at her, his mind is freer, touching on her instead of burning with _images_ ; this is a beginning.

Her patience is rewarded an hour later, when Mal stretches and heads off to catch a few hours' sleep before they land. Pausing a moment behind her, he lays a hand on her shoulder and she can feel his fires are banked, for now.

“Thanks, li'l albatross.”

Taking the ship in her hands, River smiles. It may not be much, but for now at least, this will be _enough_.


	4. Universe

_“Miranda,” she whispers, and suddenly everyone else is moving in slow motion, while she burns with an alien fury. People are screaming as she takes them down, but she doesn't_ hear, _doesn't_ care, _and when Jayne grabs her she slams a tray into his head with such force she_ feels _the crack of bone, sees him slump to the floor dead -_

Some part of her knows this isn't _right_ , this isn't the proper sequence, but she can't stop, she can't _stop_ -

 _and all threats have fallen but the final one now. Without hesitation she aims at Mal,_ fires _, watches with detached horror as she turns and shoots down Simon before he can speak the words -_

River does not awaken screaming only because her throat is too dry to produce sound. Gasping and retching, she slides off her bed to the floor, trying to dig her fingers into its cool surface.

When she is finally able to get up, the bed has acquired an evil quality and she turns her back on it, shivering.

Pulling on an old sweater that must have come from Jayne, for it swallows her in a large wooly embrace, she flees into the silent light of _Serenity_.

***

Sitting the galley with a mug of tea and his feet up on the table, Mal is startled to find himself at peace for the first time in weeks.

It's been near a month since Inara left, since they'd made a stiff farewell without looking each other in the eye.

He's been working through the thoughts this has left him with ever since. Not, he's sure, because he really wants to, but because his co-pilot keeps spouting her nonsense about images and turning past emotion into something worth having in the present. Least, that's what he thinks she's saying, and damned if he doesn't somehow feel better with those big brown eyes looking at him across the bridge. She may be not quite right, but she's certain enough of what she says to almost make a man believe it himself.

Shaking his head at the thought – _next thing you know, I'll be wandering 'round the ship barefoot talking to things as can't be seen_ – he washes out his mug and starts on a tour of his ship, reassuring himself that all's well before he heads back to the bridge.

He finds her in the passenger lounge, huddled in a corner staring up at the lights, lips moving though she's not saying a thing.

For a second, he wonders why she hasn't woken her brother, but a glance down the hallway shows the doc's door is open and the room dark; no doubt Simon's hiding out under Kaylee's covers again. A flash of annoyance fills him as he approaches River – _ought to be someone nearby for her, ain't right of him to just go off and leave her on her own down here_ – and then he's there, kneeling down and reaching out, slow and careful so as not to startle her.

“River, darlin', you alright?” he asks, placing a gentle hand on her drawn up knee.

She focuses on him immediately, and that's comforting, but the tears that start running down her face very much aren't.

“There now, ain't no call for that. What's happened got you in such a state?”

She draws a shaky breath, buries her face in her arms. “Bad dream,” she says, muffled but audible.

“That all?” Reflecting on some of his own dreams, Mal thinks better of that tactic, shifts position. “Well, I know one thing, sitting on this hard floor isn't like to help any. What do you say you do an old man a favor, sit somewhere a mite more comfortable?”

She sniffles but nods, letting him pull her to her feet and guide her to the nearby couch.

“You want me to go fetch your brother?” he asks, sitting awkwardly next to her as she re-curls herself into a ball.

Though tears are still welling in her eyes, she shakes her head fiercely. “Just upsets him. Makes him feel he's failed. It isn't his fault though. Can't use drugs as glue, can't fix something that never was.”

Her hand is tugging away at a frayed thread at the end of her sleeve; impulsively Mal stills it with his own, desperate to lend her whatever calm he can. “You wanna talk about this dream of yours any? Might help.”

She looks away, and it's a long moment before she speaks. “Bring ruin down with me, wherever I go. Don't want it, but I can't stop it. _I can't stop it_.” Her eyes meet his, panicked, the grip of her slim hand on his becoming downright painful. “What if it happens again? Always have sharp edges, never _safe_.”

“River, stop it,” he says, taking her by the shoulders. “If it happens again, you'll fight it. Or we'll all help fight it for you. You ain't never hurt nobody on this boat worse than they could take, and I'm not expecting you're gonna start anytime soon, alright?”

Her tears are falling again, and she whispers, “Brought hurt down on you though. Maybe just luck I didn't do worse.”

There's a cold bit of rage in him as he gathers her to him and holds her close, swearing silently that no hell is cruel enough for them that did this to her. “Couldn't possibly be luck, darlin', only kind I ever have is bad. And it weren't bad luck that brought you here.” He clumsily wipes a tear from her face, pushes her chin up till she looks him in the eye. “I don't blame you for any of what's happened, you got that? Never have. And if anybody on this boat does, they can answer to me. Wouldn't have you on my crew if I didn't trust you.”

He expects more protests, is surprised after a moment to see instead one of her rare smiles, only a bit dampened. “Thank you, Captain.” She sighs and settles her face against his chest. “And you're not old.”

“Huh?” He's confused, but on reflection, this is the usual way of things when conversing with River, so maybe it's a good sign.

“Said I should do an old man a favor before.” She smothers a yawn, eyes closing. “You're not so old. Not really.”

“Yeah, but 'do a not-so-old but uncomfortable man a favor' just don't have the same ring to it.”

She makes an amused sound as she sleepily stretches out her legs, uncurling from her tight ball. “Hope you're not so uncomfortable now.”

“Well,” he says, staring mighty carefully over the top of her head at the wall, “I might be if your brother were to happen to walk in 'bout now, seein' as you seem to have forgotten to put your pants on.”

He tries – honest to the memory of Shepherd Book, he tries – but he can't help catching a glimpse of long pale legs as she jumps up and flees to her bunk.

 _Not only an old man, but a dirty one_ , he thinks, shaking his head as he starts back up to the bridge.

***

In her room, River _knows_ , and smiles.


	5. Seaweed and Pirates

They've put down on New Melbourne, and even though the cargo bay doors are currently closed, River can smell the salt waves. Closing her eyes, she can sense gulls _winging_ overhead, their calls carrying the sharp pang of freedom.

“Ugh. Gorram planet reeks of fish.” Jayne stomps past her on the catwalk, heading down to help Mal and Zoë load up their cargo for delivery.

“Well, Jayne, it is mostly ocean,” Zoë points out, hefting up another crate of finest quality bait.

Jayne shifts uneasily. “Yeah, and I never did take to things that ain't got legs 'less they're on my dinner plate. Sooner we're back in the air where we belong, happier I'll be. Who wants this crap anyhow, Mal?”

“Pirates,” says River, from her perch at the top of the stairs.

“They are _legitimate businessfolk_ , thank you very much,” Mal says, looking up at her, but he's got on his _mock-Captain_ face and not his _serious-now-so-crazy-girls-should-hush_ face. “Just seems that the fisherman's guild here is mighty particular 'bout who's allowed to buy the best types of bait. If some folk can't be bothered with permits and the like, that's hardly our business.”

“Pirate the catch,” she insists, lying back to stare up at _Serenity's_ hull. “Swoop in, take what they can. Leave nothing behind.”

“Way I see it,” Mal says, putting the last crate into place, “man's got a right to whatever he can get his hands on fairly. All the more so if he's payin' me for it.” Loading complete, they split up to make final preparations, heading out of the cargo bay.

While River knows perfectly well the _intended meaning_ of his words, she finds the idea of Mal _getting his hands_ on her flying to the front of her mind. It hooks itself into her so tightly she nearly forgets to breathe, lost in imagining his hands pulling her up, sliding under her clothes, across her skin.

“What the hell's the matter with you, moonbrain? You got a look on your face like Kaylee when she spots a fresh berry. All...gooey,” Jayne says with evident disgust as he passes her again, snapping her from her daze.

“Jayne, are those grenades? What the hell do you think you're gonna be needin' grenades for on a simple delivery?” Mal says, returning from the bridge.

Jayne looks guiltily at the cylinders in his hands. “Uh...only way to go fishin', Capt'n?” he attempts.

“Nice try, but no. Back they go. Anyhow, just had a wave from our man, they ain't gonna be ready for us for another couple hours. So, 'less someone's got a better idea, I say we head out, take advantage of the beach while we got it.”

“You mean we can go out swimming, Cap'n? Really?” Coming in from the upper regions of the ship, Kaylee is all but bouncing with glee. River wonders yet again at her capability to appear just ahead of good news, files away the possibility that Kaylee can read _joy_ just as River can read _thoughts_ for later consideration.

“Won't that be shiny, Simon? Been an awful long time since I've been in the water.” Kaylee and Simon are at the stairs next to her now, and River notes that continued exposure has not yet made Kaylee's enthusiasm contagious to her brother.

“Swimming, here?” Simon's face is a picture in politely repressed disgust as Mal opens the doors, letting in the full and decidedly fishy bouquet of New Melbourne.

“What's wrong doc, scared of a little water?” Jayne is sure to jostle Simon as he heads back for his bunk; they may be more _friendly_ these days, but they are not yet friends.

“Not when it's _clean_ , no.” But as usual when he's set against Kaylee, Simon knows the battle is lost before he could begin it, lets himself be dragged along to fading chatter about seashells and sand ships.

River and Mal are alone now, and he climbs the stairs to stand next to the dark pool of her hair.

“What about you, little one? You up for a swim?”

She tilts her head back, the better to see his face looking down on her. “No,” she says, “but I'd very much like to go for a float.”

She sees the corner of his mouth lift as he offers a hand to pull her up. “Tiny thing like you, I don't expect that'll be much of a problem.”

Her fingers are cool and steady in his, do not betray her. But inside she is _rocked_ by waves, not only from the sensation of his thumb brushing over her wrist. This is the first time she's seen him truly smile in the month since Inara left the ship. She tallies it as another small victory, soothes the fluttering desire within her with more tiny offerings of _hope_.

***

River is weightless, adrift on a green sea, sunlight warming her face. The water lapping at her ears mutes sound, envelops her in an ocean of peace. She has always loved to swim, used to play on the beaches of Osiris where she was a mermaid, luring Simon the sailor to his watery doom.

The unwelcome thought that _this is truth now, no longer just fantasy_ is interrupted by a bit of seaweed wrapping itself around her ankle, tickling her. She ducks under to unwind it, tumbling into and then breaking free of the water's weightless embrace. And as she surfaces, her world once again becomes _Mal_.

He is still, looking out to sea, waves breaking over his shoulders. She can feel each one as they pass her in turn, gently tugging and pushing at her body; but more than that, she can _feel_ the weight washing off his shoulders as he lets himself be absolved, just a bit, for all that has happened.

A gull calls out overhead, and River cannot help but tempt fate, knows she is smiling for the pure sense of _peace_ cresting around them.

Her peace is scattered by a cold splash to her face as Jayne drifts past. “What're you going cuckoo over now, girl?” he says, grinning at her in a big brotherly fashion totally alien to Simon's. He follows her line of sight to Mal, and for a moment her limbs are weighted with dread as he looks back to her with narrowed eyes. “You keep looking at the Capt'n like that, people are gonna think you've gone all moony over him. Gotta be careful what you're lookin' at when you're having crazy times, you know.”

She smiles again, full of relief and mischief both, because he is after all _Jayne_. She dives under, a mermaid once more, ready to pull the overly curious down with her.


	6. Siren Song

Combing through hair gone stiff with salt, River sits on the bridge, trying to order a memory scrambled and overfull like an ion cloud.

Mal has gone out on the job, taking Zoë and Jayne with him. River hates to be left behind, feels the strain as she tries to track the three bright spots of _family_ through the docks before letting them slip away. Wrapping herself inside the comforting shell of _Serenity_ , she waits for his voice on the com to rouse her, and she _remembers_.

Her recent dream brought back many things she'd wanted to block, but as she sat surrounded by the safety of his arms that night in the lounge, she'd _seen_ something new.

In the Maidenhead, in the adrenaline haze, she had meant to shoot him, would have shot him within seconds. But the _girl_ had been screaming inside the _weapon_ , fighting for control of so much as a finger, and thanks to Simon, it had been just enough.

Then Mal had done the inexplicable, picked her up and carried her back to _protection_ , to _security_. All of this has long been clear, part of the established pattern of her, of _them_.

Now another thought has sifted free. She's seen him kill before, even friends, without hesitation when threatened. In those seconds as she fought not to shoot him, he had a clear shot, in all _logic_ should have taken it.

But he hadn't.

Things gain a certain clarity in memory after that; she knows all he risked for her, gambling on her shattered self and her worth as a person. Knows as he told her the first rule of flying – talking aloud to please her – that he was speaking not just of _Serenity_ , but of the crew-made-family within her, of River herself.

Somehow they've managed to crawl back from the point of her being a danger, a burden with a gun trained on him. He's helped shine a light on her as she's rewired her mind, his presence _calming_ her, shoring her up against the storms. _Together_ they've rebuilt her position as a _useful_ member of his crew.

 _Love_ , _trust_ and _purpose_. These are what she has craved to make herself a functioning whole once more, and Mal has given her each.

With all that, she thinks, perhaps it would have been more difficult _not_ to fall in love with him.

And the night of her dream has brought one other fact to the surface, one she has turned over and over with _wonder_ – while he may not be able to _accept_ it, there are parts of Mal very well aware of how much she's grown up.

Static on the com draws her back to _now_ , the insistent voice pulling at her.

 _“River, are you there?”_

As she picks up her handset, her blood is chilled, because the voice on the other end is not Mal's, as it _always_ is, as it _should be_ , but Zoë's.

“Yes,” she says, as flatly as she can manage. “What's happened?”

 _“We're coming in. Get the ship warmed up. And tell Simon to be ready. Captain's down.”_


	7. Anyone Would Drown

Being on land isn't so different on New Melbourne from being in its water. What land there is lies so flat the whole world seems made of horizon, and the inhabitants dart through stalls and carts on the streets like schools of brightly colored fish.

It's a place, Mal thinks, to visit but not to linger in; the smell of fish has already seeped into his coat, a crime against fine leather if ever there was one.

Zoë's guiding the mule slowly through the crowded streets, heading for docks more'n the seedy and watery side than the ones they've left. “How much further we have to go, sir?” she asks, eyes scanning the crowd.

“Shouldn't be far. Our man said oughta be 'bout two miles across town from where we left _Serenity_.”

“In this crowd, could take twenty minutes to get that far. We'd go faster walking.”

“That we would, if we didn't have a few hundred pounds of crates to lug along with us. Crowd got you nervous, Zoë?”

“Always calm on a job, sir,” she responds steadily. “Just feel a bit calmer once it's done.”

“No need to fret. Long as we keep things well covered, we're nothing more than honest folk with a slightly mysterious bundle at our backs,” Mal says, turning to check that the tarp they've used to cover the contraband bait is secure. “Jayne, you wanna get that corner by you fixed down?”

There's no response from Jayne, and looking up Mal sees his attention's fixed on a teenage girl with bright hair and a good deal of exposed bronze skin. “Jayne!” he yells, loud enough that the girl turns, sees them, and waves to Jayne with a wink and a giggle.

“What?” says Jayne, turning to fix the errant bit of tarp. “Ain't no harm in having a look at a woman's wares if she's willin' to show 'em off.”

“Jayne, you are nothing if not disgusting,” Zoë comments, steering them around a corner, out of the crowd.

“Girl wasn't even as old as River,” Mal points out.

“Aw hell, Mal, and she's no little girl either. Or didn't you notice her out there in the water today?”

“What?” Mal blinks, recalls a rather pleasing image of River drifting on the ocean, and glibly lies. “No, cause I ain't a pervy old man like you.”

Jayne snorts. “Well, she sure as hell was noticing you.”

Mal's eyes narrow. “Girl notices a lot of things, Jayne, it's her way. You mean to imply something?”

“Just that maybe that 'innocent girl' is thinking about gettin' in your not-so-innocent-”

“We're here,” Zoë cuts him off, thankfully. “Would those be our buyers, sir?”

Mal, pulling his mind with some difficulty from the path Jayne was headed down, finds he sure as hell hopes not. The group of men approaching don't look any too willing to negotiate, and the mean looking one in the lead's got himself an ugly smile and a great big oar.

***

Seconds after the doors close behind the mule, _Serenity_ is airborne, the glint of the sun on the ocean behind them fading fast into the black.

“What happened?” Simon asks with professional calm as Jayne and Zoë between them maneuver an unconscious Mal off the transport.

“Captain got himself whacked in the head with a mighty big oar,” Zoë says, as they head to the infirmary. “Seems our buyers had themselves some enemies who knew they had a deal going down today. Thought they'd come take it for themselves, free of charge.”

“But you're alright?” Kaylee asks, standing pale in the doorway. “Captain's gonna be alright?”

Simon only shrugs as they get Mal up on the table. “I won't know that until I've examined him.”

“We're fine,” Zoë says. “Buyers showed up, helped us take care of those _hun dan_. They didn't want us hanging around planetside though, seemed to think our little fight may have attracted the wrong kind of attention.”

“When don't it?” Jayne asks, standing back to give Simon room. “Least we got paid.”

“That's nice,” Kaylee says faintly. “Simon...?”

Simon lets out a breath, looks up from Mal's head. “He's got a bad scalp laceration back here, but there doesn't seem to be any fracture. I can't say for certain, of course; head wounds are tricky. But I think he should be awake within a few hours, though he'll have quite a headache.”

“Oh good,” Kaylee sighs, eyes shining in shared adoration for her Captain and her Simon.

 _Relief_ is immediately pervasive from the infirmary. Up on the bridge, River sighs too, and relaxes the death grip she has had on _Serenity's_ helm to keep herself from flying apart.

***

She arrives at the infirmary door, a silent wisp in a pink dress, just as Simon is setting his last stitch. The others, assured that Mal has skimmed against danger without falling into it yet again, have gone about their own business, leaving the room quiet.

Snipping off the thread, Simon glances up at her. “River. Did you...need something?”

She understands his confusion; the infirmary is not a room she enters willingly. She shakes her head, sliding first one foot, then the other into the room, testing the floor as though it were thin ice. “Just wanted to see that he was fine. With my own eyes. Reliable sources.” She approaches the table sideways, slowly. “You've given him a bald spot,” she says, as Simon finishes bandaging Mal's head. “He won't like that.”

“I'm sure he'd like an open wound on his head even less, so he'll learn to live with it. River,” he says, eyebrows drawing together, “who's flying the ship?”

She gives him the _you're-a-dummy_ look she's been cultivating since before she could talk. “She likes to fly herself.” She smiles, but Simon seems unconvinced, so she sighs and says, “Autopilot, Simon. Sometimes you're not a doctor. I don't always have to be a pilot.”

“Well, of course not. I just thought...” He trails off uncertainly, as he so often does around her. “I didn't know it would be so important for you, to come down and see the Captain.”

“He's Mal,” she says simply, cautiously sitting beside the table.

“Yes,” Simon responds, puzzled. She can feel his mind running through the possibilities in that statement, and sighs. Simon has a wonderful mind, full of facts and order and _logic_ , but it takes him so many turns to arrive at her _intentions_. Sometimes he never does. “He'll be fine, River, really. There's no need to worry,” he says, squeezing her shoulder.

She can feel Simon's mind continuing implacably in the search for meaning in her words; he has considered and discarded the meanings _Captain_ , _bad_ , and _needs looking after_ and is now mulling over variations on _important_.

While Simon's version of _important_ is far off from River's, at least concerning Mal, this is still too close. She deflects him, saying, “Kaylee wants to see you.”

Simon hesitates, looking at Mal. “You'll sit with him for a while? There shouldn't be any danger, but just in case...”

She smiles; she has been able to predict Simon perfectly since she was four years old. “Of course.”

“Come find me when he comes to; it shouldn't be very long,” he says, walking out the door.

She leans to the side, watching him through the windows until he is out of sight. “Wasn't a lie,” she says to her unconscious audience. “Kaylee _does_ want to see him, even if she didn't tell me so.”

She turns back to Mal, studying his face, and after a long moment leans close to his ear and whispers, “I'm glad you're fine. Because you _will_ be.” She can feel his mind, when she reaches out for it, tentatively; it's humming like a hive of angry bees, but seems as _intact_ as ever.

She knows she should maintain her distance. Simon has drugged him, but not heavily; she knows Mal will not be solely _hers_ for long. But while he is, she revels in it, allows herself to take his hand, skimming her fingers up his arm, soaking in the feel of his skin.

Knowing the ship will warn her of anything in their path and her mind will warn her of any human approach, she ignores her sense of _caution_ , rests her head on the table next to his. Though she's touching only his hand, holding it between her own, her entire body feels strung with wires, plucked to vibrating at the _nearness_ of him. She closes her eyes, slides her fingers over the pulse in his wrist, and relaxes to the steady sound of his breathing.

“You scare me, Mal,” she whispers, not daring to creep into his head to know if he hears her, wanting for this moment to be a _normal_ woman.

Normality, as always, is short lived for River, and all too soon a tingling in her brain warns her, lets her sit up properly just before Zoë enters the room.

“River.” Zoë seems surprised to see her here; everyone knows River's feelings for this room. “How is he?” she asks, coming around the other side of the table.

“Fine,” River says, taking one last look at his peaceful face. “About to be worse though. He's about to start feeling.”

Mal's eyes open, and he winces in the bright lights, gaze wandering before he manages to focus on Zoë. “Zoë?” he says, groggy. “What the hell happened? Last thing I 'member, we're in a fight and you're shoutin' something at me.”

“Yes, sir. Was shouting 'duck.' You didn't.”

“Oh. Think that might'a been foolish of me. Head hurts like hell.” His gaze leaves Zoë, manages to travel over to River. “Alb'tross? What're you doin' down here?”

River glances at Zoë, knows she is _wondering_ much the same thing, and takes her _escape_ route. “I'll go find Simon,” she says, grateful for once her previous behavior was such that little she does now causes much consideration among the crew.

As she leaves, she can hear his voice, a bit slurred still but with that particular persistence of tone, saying, “She was here, right Zoë? Swear she was.”

Brushing her hair from her face on the way to the engine room and Simon, she finds her hands carry his scent still, proof that she _was_.


	8. Room to Breathe

_Serenity_ is humming with pleasure, and River hums along with her, an old tune from Sihnon learned from Inara.

They are on their way to meet up with Monty, deliver a hold full of smuggled vegetable seeds. River is certain _Serenity_ hums because she likes Monty, likes a short and sweet tryst with another ship that is _friendly_ and _comfortable_.

River's own humming ceases mid-note, as the sound of Mal's feet on the floor moving towards the bridge is sweeter by far.

She feels her senses swim around him as he steps into the space, couldn't hum anymore if she wanted to for lack of breath.

“No need to stop on account of me, darlin',” he says, taking his seat. “It's a pretty song.”

“No,” she says. “Not all things are meant to be shared. You can hum if you like, though.” She grins at him, still happy after a week to have him back on the bridge with her. “Was too quiet up here without your witticisms.”

He smirks at this. “Was only off duty for two days, and that's just cause that mother hen you call a brother wouldn't let me up sooner. 'Sides, I know you love it up here. Couldn't've missed me all that much.”

“I do like to hear you talk,” she says, keeping her eyes carefully on the black.

“As to that, darlin', I've been thinking,” he says, and she is gripped with a sudden tight fear that he somehow _knows_ , means to ask what she is not ready to answer. She casts about frantically in her mind, but as is so often the case when she tries to read him, her own thoughts are in such a _storm_ at touching his that little gets through. Still, she reads only _calm_ , and so manages to remain still, to hear him out.

“Must be too quiet for you all too often of late, down there in the passenger dorm,” he continues, looking over at her speculatively. “What with your brother being up here more nights than not and us not havin' any passengers at the moment.”

He pauses, and she nods, curious as to his purpose now. “Full of solitude. _Serenity_ bunks with me, though.” She smiles at his confusion. “Right below the engine.”

“Ah, right,” he says, comprehension dawning. “And that's all well and good with me if you'd like to stay on there. But I was thinking that, seeing as how you're an honest part of the crew now, maybe you'd like to come up here and bunk with us.”

The wide-eyed expression on her face, she thinks with the bit of her brain that has not run away with her into visions of _shared_ bunk space, must be quite comical.

Luckily, Mal is focused on flying, hasn't noticed. “Now, I know that empty bunk has got the misfortune of bein' next to Jayne's, and if you conjure he's worse company than the engine, don't think I'd blame you,” he says, finally turning to her and smiling. “But it's close to the bridge, and close to friendly faces should you have any more of those nightmares. All yours if you'd like it.”

She has managed to control her face now, but finds herself breathless again at the magnitude of what he's offering. “Really, Captain?”

“I'd never make you an offer I didn't mean, albatross,” he says, standing and offering a hand to her. “Really and truly yours.”

Pushed beyond caution by the edges of _promise_ , she cannot help herself, takes his hand and rises on her toes to brush a kiss against his cheek. “Thank you, Mal.”

If he's startled at her display of affection, he recovers quickly, ruffles her hair and gives her a push towards the doorway. “Go on now, run 'long and get your brother to help move your things. I expect to see you back up here 'fore we land.”

At the doorway, she turns back, expecting to see him already focused again on the black. She meets his eyes instead, as he's still watching her, and a last smile drifts between them before she turns, _joy_ twining around the _hope_ in her heart.


	9. Drunkard's Prayer

They've set down safely, met up with Monty and his crew to hand off the goods. For once, things have gone smoothly, the payday will be ample, and both crews are more than willing to take a night and bask in the glow of a job well done.

It's a lovely little patch of moon they've landed on, though the night air is cool. Jayne's built a fire, but it's done more crackling and smoking than heating; luckily, Monty's feeling generous with some fine whiskey he's picked up and Kaylee's brought out a batch of fresh engine wine, so everyone is heated from the inside out and it doesn't much matter.

River is sprawled (with _grace_ and _elegance_ , she thinks, surely not an ungainly pile of limbs, that would not be _River_ ) in a soft patch of grass, musing on the cup of whiskey in her hands. Kaylee had poured her some wine, but River has had it before, finds it lacking in the properties of obliteration she understands alcohol is meant to have.

Of course, this understanding is gleaned mostly from grimy scraps of Jayne picked out from grouchy mornings, and as such is suspect until further corroboration.

Still, when Monty, whose growing beard she enjoys cataloging for future comparisons, gave her a wink and a whiskey, she did not object, instead sought out a quiet spot in the long grass where Simon would be less likely to notice her and confiscate this liquid treasure.

She has managed to approach the bottom of the cup now, sip by stinging sip, and her brain has gone pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. Not slipping out of her control, not making her lose herself like _before_ , just filled with the drowsy warmth of a liquid blanket.

She can see the Captain across the fire, and the heat spreading from her belly into her hands and face feels familiar even as it's different. This is not the usual quick flush as her thoughts slide across him, this is lasting. She knows it's partly the _whiskey_ and not the _girl_ , but it feels so much the same and so right that she rolls onto her back, closes her eyes and holds the heat close, cherishing the feeling against his image in her mind.

When she looks up again, the image blends into reality, as he is standing above her. For a moment she believes in _wishes_ come true, and she is giddy, giggling up at him.

“What you got there, albatross?” he asks, sitting beside her and removing the cup from her hand before she can protest. She sticks her tongue out, but sighs in regret; the cup was empty anyhow. Mal sniffs at it, raising an eyebrow. “Monty been givin' you the good stuff? I'm gonna have a talk with that man.”

River giggles again, pokes ineffectually at his arm. “I'm fully capable, Captain. Big girl now, can handle my liquor.”

Mal looks down at her, his mouth twitching. “Reckon I know that, darlin'. Meant I'd have to speak to him 'bout wasting the whiskey on a little slip of a thing like you instead of saving it for those as do the real work.”

River's eyerolling capabilities are impressive, as only a younger sibling's can be. “I can fly away without you, you know. Teach you to mock your pilot.” She sits up, but gravity is playing games with her, so she slides up against the comforting bulk of Mal instead. The warmth of him joins the heat of the fire and the whiskey in her skin and she feels she must be _steaming_.

He chuckles, settling an arm around her. “Don't think I need to worry none 'bout that when you can't seem to properly grasp your balance, much less run off with my boat.”

Too consumed to formulate a response that has both _sense_ and _wit_ , she contents herself with a humming noise and settles in deeper against his body, head titling against his shoulder. She knows if she looks up, his face will be only inches from hers. This is something she has contemplated so often her mind has planned two dozen scenarios down to the second, but the heat in her is not yet enough to light that kind of courage, so she settles in to enjoy every detail as best her steaming skin and senses can manage.

He smells of soap and leather and whiskey (the whiskey is questionable, everything now seems to smell of whiskey) and that personal flavor that is _Mal_. His body against her is solid, firm in a way that she's not previously been in a state of mind to appreciate when she's had the chance. Now she imagines running her hands along the length of him, and her breath quickens at the thought.

His hand is resting lightly on her elbow, a gentle touch still on the proper side of _Captainy_. But, she thinks, she can _shift_ her arm just a bit, like _so_ , and his hand falls to the curve of her waist, and River gives a small sigh as her fires blaze up.

It is this sigh, she thinks (which surely belongs to the _whiskey_ , the _girl_ could not be so clumsy), that is her undoing. She feels Mal stiffen, feels his thoughts pile and jumble up, knows that if she raised her head now he would be looking down at her, asking questions with his face.

She does not want to answer. But the _whiskey_ is spiteful; it pokes and pricks at her and her head slides back and up anyhow, and she meets his eyes knowing he will _know_.

***

It's been a good day, Mal thinks, even if most of his crew's now in various states of insensibility. Zoë's retreated back to the ship, Simon and Kaylee and a jug of wine vanished a while back into a nearby patch of trees, and Jayne's used his alcohol-induced charms to steal away with a woman off Monty's crew.

His copilot's tucked up against him, talking nonsense about stealing his ship. He can't recall seeing River drunk before, but it only seems to have made her drowsy and affectionate, and so long as she's sensible to fly the ship come morning, he doesn't much mind. 'Sides, he's a mite fuzzy himself, or he'd not have been so willing to have her tucked up against him like this. Not that he's doing anything wrong exactly, not holding her any different than he would Kaylee, but he can see Monty watching them with a big old grin on his face that Mal doesn't much like the look of. Girl might be of age now, but that don't mean he's eager to encourage that kind of speculation about her. He's thinking of sending River off to the ship for the night so he can correct Monty's wandering thoughts when River shifts, and his hand slips from her elbow to her waist.

He'd have thought it a natural movement – even drunk, River doesn't lack for grace – if it weren't for that sweet sigh. It's been a good while since Mal set out to seduce a woman, but he remembers that sound, knows the satisfaction and permission in it. He tenses and looks down swiftly, and it's an achingly long second before her face tilts up and he sees the wanting that alcohol's made her too honest to conceal.

And yet, even as his mind's throwing out every startled curse it can dredge up, his hand notices the slight curve of her, and he's all too aware of her heat pressed against him, of the flush of color across her cheekbones. Her gaze slides down to his mouth, and he remembers too late that she can feel out every bit of him, pulls back only just in time to avoid her lips.

“River, darlin',” he says, rising to his feet and pulling her up after him, “it's just the whiskey talking, don't mean a thing.”

He may not be a reader, but he can sense the shame in her, feels her pulling away, tucking into herself as she lets her hair fall over her face. He can't even begin to think on what's just happened, but he knows he doesn't want her shamed like this cause of him. “Believe I'm more'n a mite unsteady myself, not even like to remember much in the morning.” She looks up at him, confused and still hurt, he can tell, but looking less like she's about to bolt. “ _Dong ma_?” he says firmly.

She looks to the ship, takes a breath. Nods. “ _Shi shi_ , Captain.” She meets his eyes steadily. “Memory is a liar, plays tricks.”

“That it does. As does drink, so let's both of us head in 'fore we've got any more to forget.”

She turns back towards the treeline for a moment, wrinkles her nose. “Already do. Kaylee and Simon are _loud_.”

Mal doesn't hear a thing beyond the fire, but then, River's hearing don't always involve her ears. “Better out here than in _Serenity_ , then.”

River nods sagely. “Yes. All that metal. Leads to such echoes.”

That's near enough to make Mal smile again – but he hasn't forgotten yet, so not quite – and when they turn for the ship, the silence between them's a bit less strained at the least.

***

Though River stumbles slightly on the way, whether from the _whiskey_ or the _girl_ , she could not say, Mal does not reach for her, does not touch her again.


	10. Dancing in Her Thinnest Dress

While the slow burn of the whiskey allows River the blessing of sleep, gives her permission to _forget_ , it is not a lasting gift. She awakens in the darkness, knowing without sight that the red sun is just beginning its dawn over their deserted patch of moon.

In memory, the night blends, a whirl of heat and smoke, flares of exhilaration and shame. Lying silent in the darkness, she remembers the heat, remembers his touch, and she smiles, because more important than either are the thoughts she glimpsed. In the haze of the _whiskey_ , out in the firelight, she had felt his thoughts only as a spark against hers, but now, with time to turn _fragments_ into a _whole_ , she knows. A brief window into possibility only, but she knows for that second he had _wanted_ in turn, had nearly _accepted_.

In the following shadow of his rejection, however softened, it is not much. But it is what she has, so she holds it firmly in her mind and plays on it, determined to nurture it, until it trails echoes of _heat_ within her.

Finding herself suddenly full of _movement_ , she pulls on an old dress, slips on silent feet through the ship to the bay doors, and ventures out into the blooming sunrise.

***

Mal's spent a restless night in his bunk, is not a happy Captain. River's actions and the desire in her face this past night brought up too much he doesn't care to think on; thoughts of Book and the _special hell_ war with the memory of his hand on her waist, her eyes on his lips. A tiny thought forms – _hell, would it be so bad?_ – before being struck down as he imagines Simon's reaction, Zoë's cold disapproval, Jayne's sniggering. And, though he doesn't care to dwell on it, there's a lingering memory of Inara in there too.

He admits, thinking on the last few months, that he might have seen this coming. Girl's a reader, but that don't make her completely unreadable herself, and every one of the increasing minutes she's spent in his company is its own tell. _Even_ Jayne _saw it, of all people_ , he thinks, before comforting himself with the knowledge that if any of them would have an eye out for lust, it'd be Jayne.

Giving up on sleep and rising from his rumpled bed, he can only hope the fragile pact to ignore that they made last night will hold.

He's smart enough to know that ain't likely to happen.

Heading for the galley and a bite of breakfast, he's taken by a sudden shift in the air, something that tells him _Serenity_ isn't sealed up proper like she should be.

He reaches the open cargo bay doors with what he thinks of as an admirable amount of stealth, and looks out on the sun rising over the tall grass, swaying in the slight breeze.

Mal finds he's not taking in much of this though. All he sees is River, because she is _dancing_.

He knows full well she's graceful, knows the weightless way she can move, her lightning turns and precise gestures. But he's never seen them put together like this – a display of beauty and release of feeling so intense he feels like a spy, drawing back into the shadows of the ship.

Just then, the light rises above the horizon and flares, catches River in its grasp, holds her in a cradle of flame.

Mal knows he ought to leave, that he's intruding on something not meant for sharing. Her dress is pale, thin, the rising light leaving no illusions. Her every motion, her very exuberance says she feels safe, secure, unobserved. She's given no indication she knows he's there, hasn't faltered or paused once.

But something holds him there, watching her, and he lets himself be taken by her; by the line of her body, the motion of her. And in watching her, he _forgets_ ; forgets that he shouldn't be here, that he's got no right to this. Forgets that she's part of his crew, a damaged girl at heart, and sees only _River_ , and what she's creating in front of him, in this space carved out of a sunrise.

Finally, her dance winds down, the sun's no longer a growing thing, and she stands silent and still a moment, watching the emptiness of the world.

By the time she turns, he's gone.

It's not til some hours later, after he's lifted the ship up into orbit and she's come to the bridge to take over flight, that he sees her again.

Even then, he's startled as she's simply _appeared_ , in her unsettling way, behind him, bending over his shoulder so he feels the tickle of her hair against his neck.

“Mal,” she whispers in his ear, not touching him apart from that delicate brush of hair. “Meant it to be shared. Danced for you.”

She's over in her own seat before he can react, expression so placid he's beginning to wonder if he's the one hearing things that ain't there.

Thing is, he's starting to hope he isn't.


	11. You Shy Away

“Mal, why's there a crazy person in the bunk next to mine?”

Looking up from where he's doing his best (well, more like the closest he can get to his best without putting in any real effort, if he's being honest) to turn a heap of protein into something palatable, Mal raises an eyebrow. “I'm gonna assume you're talking 'bout River there, Jayne, cause it'd take a braver man than you to call Zoë crazy.”

Jayne drops into a chair with his usual lack of good grace. “Lot of you are all gone nutty, you think it's a good idea having her up in our quarters. It's askin' for trouble, Mal.”

“If the girl really wanted to kill you, she'd do it just as easily from the rear of the ship as she could from right next door, you know that. Only makes sense to have her up there, what with her doing so much of the flyin' these days. Any case, I said she could have the bunk, so there she stays.”

Though if he's being honest with himself again, Mal's regretting that offer and all its temptations just the tiniest bit now that he knows River's looking at him in all manner of disturbing new ways.

From the table, Jayne's expression shifts into ugly suspicion. “That right? Maybe you got another reason for wantin' her up close, huh? Monty told an interestin' tale the other night 'bout you getting mighty comfortable like with her.” His sullen face breaks into a leer, and Mal has to turn away to suppress the decidedly unhealthy urge to start a fight.

“Ought to look to that mouth of yours 'fore somebody does it for you.”

“Oh come on, Mal,” Jayne protests, leaning back in his chair. “Girl's a mite skinny for my tastes, but don't think any of us'd blame you. 'Cept maybe the doc, of course. Hell, I wondered why you let Inara go, but it's startin' to make sense now.”

When Mal turns around, Jayne sits up straighter in his seat, cause even he's learned to respect the Captain when he's got that particular look on his face. “Only gonna tell you this once, Jayne, and then I expect to hear no more about it, ever,” he says, leaning over the table. “Ain't nothing between River and me. Nothing more than there should be. You got that?”

“Yes, Capt'n,” Jayne mutters, sitting back again. It's not in his nature to be suppressed for long though, and the phrase 'unexpressed thought' never has been part of his vocabulary. “Hey, that mean she's fair game then? Gets lonely 'round here,” he says defensively, in response to Mal's glare.

“Sure thing. Once you get past her brother and his many ways of killin' a man without leaving a trace, and past me with mine, which are messier but still result in you bein' dead, then you can ask a girl who's proven she can lay you out flat if she'd like to warm your bunk. You let me know how that goes.”

“So...that mean yes or not?” Jayne calls, as Mal turns to stalk off down the crew passage.

He doesn't even know why he's so gorram angry, is the thing of it. Maybe it's just Jayne's base implications that've got him all worked up. Or maybe it's the fact, hidden deeper in the picture of a girl dancing in the sunlight and the memory of her voice whispering against his ear, that he wishes he could have told Jayne he was right.

The fact that he's finding it hard to think of reasons why he couldn't, why it's wrong for him to want her, ain't helping a bit.

As he pauses next to the door to his cabin, he can see the door that's now River's is open, light and voices rising up from it. And as he stands and listens, he finds himself with all kinds of reasons why.

***

River is frustrated. The _elation_ of the previous day, the _certainty_ that she could make Mal see, has faded, and she is empty and tired and cross.

This last is due to her brother, who is making a _pest_ of himself.

“You're invading my space,” she tells him, turning where she sits on her bed to face the wall. “Don't want you here. Don't need you here.”

“River, I just want to understand. I only want to help you, you know that. It's just that...well, when Kaylee mentioned you'd been asking her about sex, I-”

“She shouldn't have told you. Wasn't right. Confidences out of their cages make a mess,” she says.

“No, no, River, she didn't mean anything by it. She was just...just joking around. She thought it was harmless, I'm sure.”

River turns her head just enough to glare at him. “She'll be mad. Tells you not to herd me like a sheep.”

Simon sighs, sitting next to her on the bed. “Yes, she does, though not generally in such picturesque terms. But this – River, this is important. You aren't ready for that kind of contact, for the kind of relationship you should have for...that.”

The fact that Simon, the important, self-assured doctor, is full of overwhelming _awkwardness_ at having to discuss sex with his little sister amuses her only for the briefest of seconds. “Can't protect me forever, Simon. Not a doll, or a little girl. You can't make my choices for me.”

“And I'm not trying to,” he says, taking her hand before she tugs it from his grasp. “But the trauma you've been through – it isn't something that we can be certain won't still affect your judgment, your perceptions.”

She refuses to look at him now, _hurt_ and _shame_ building up tears behind her eyes, making them threaten to spill over. “You'll trust me with the ship, but not with my own body?”

She _knows_ without seeing that Simon is no longer looking at her, either. “To be honest...it doesn't matter what I think about the ship, that's Mal's choice. I'm just pleased to see how flying soothes you. You obviously love it, so it makes me happy. But sex – that's a different matter. It's messy and complicated and it can make even totally normal people do insane things. I just can't let you be hurt by something like this, not when you're doing so well.”

“That's not fair,” she whispers. “Can't keep me in a box. Have to let me breathe.”

He sighs again, puts a hand on her shoulder that she refrains from shrugging off with effort, knowing it is placed in _love_ and _hope_ and _comfort_. “Well,” he says, forcing a smile into his voice, “it's not as though there can be any rush about it. The only men you have to choose from out here are Jayne and the Captain, and I can't honestly picture you with either of _them_.” He laughs, as much as Simon ever laughs, and she _knows_ he expects her to laugh with him, as though his words don't make her want to cry and scream out her _frustrations_ instead.

“Go away, Simon,” she says, her voice small and cold. “Go have what I can't.”

“ _Mei mei_...” he says, reaching for her again, but she shies away, remains a stubborn wall until he has no choice but to depart. She knows he is _sorry_ , and _confused_ , and _troubled_ , all swirling in him like murky water. But she knows also that he has Kaylee, that she will be his sun, make him grow back into contentment.

Seeking _solace_ of her own, she climbs the ladder, makes her way step by slow step up to the bridge.

She is searching only for the comfort of _Serenity's_ hum, of the accepting presence of the black and the dinosaurs and the memory of Wash.

Instead she finds Mal, and for a second she feels her _hope_ dance within her, bringing its own comfort, proving there are things Simon does not comprehend. But as she takes the last step in, her mind running ahead to test the currents of _thought_ , she hits a spot of such bitter emptiness that her _hope_ withers, and she is stopped in her tracks.

“River,” Mal says without turning, and his voice is full of things he isn't saying, things she can't read. “Think we need to have a talk, little one.”

She _hears_ a slight emphasis on the final phrase, and the _bitter_ thins for a moment, lets her mind see what he has overheard. “Don't call me that,” she says, forcing herself to go forward, to sit in her seat like a _normal_ person. “Don't want to be little forever. But I can't grow if people keep forcing me down, don't let me up.” She looks directly at him, waits until he reluctantly faces her. “It's rude to listen to what doesn't concern you.”

He looks away again, and she feels that this was somehow _wrong_ , that everything is slipping away too fast for her. “Way I see it, concerned me a good deal. Simon may not have had all his facts right, but he weren't wrong about one thing at least. You gotta stop this mooning over me, _dong ma_? It ain't right.”

She bites her lip, wraps her arms around her drawn-up knees. “Why not?”

He takes a moment to answer, and she tries to calm herself among the distant stars. “Cause it won't last, this fixation you've got. Right now, it's like the doc said – you got a choice between Jayne and me, and I don't mind saying I can see how I come out the best of that deal. But that don't mean it's right.”

“Feels right. Feels whole.”

He sighs. “Look, River, me and you – no. Your brother good as said it, two of us just don't fit together. There's a big 'verse out there full of folks who'll do you a damn sight better than me.”

She looks at him, wondering if he can truly think this, if the cords of _belief_ that have tied them together have passed around him without his knowledge. “Isn't so. Couldn't be anyone in the 'verse who'd do for me better than you.”

He glances at her, and in that second she sees into him, sees the shadows of _fear_ and _mistrust_ and _regret_ that weave their bitterness around him, before he turns away again. “Lot of the 'verse you ain't seen yet. It's been a long day, be obliged if you'd give a man a little peace now.”

She _considers_ , momentarily forgetting her own emptiness in his. “I'll go,” she says, moving to stand beside him, “if you'll swear to answer me one thing truthfully before I do.”

He looks up at her, more _tired_ than annoyed. “Does it really matter if I do? Conjure you can tell truth from a lie no matter what I intend.”

“True. But it's the form of the thing that matters, as much as the substance.”

“'Spose that's so. Go ahead then, promise I'll give you your truth.”

She pauses, framing the _words_ carefully into _meaning_. “You said the idea of us isn't right, for reasons to do with me, with my feelings. Didn't say anything about you, things you feel.” She is reluctant to finish it, to come to the point, _forces_ herself to go on. “Do you want me, Mal?”

He stares out into the black, speaks so low she can hardly hear him. “Be a fool not to, albatross.”

She finds it difficult to stand upright for the relief washing over her, feels a glow like she's _dancing_ in the sunrise once more. “Thank you,” she says, and turns to go, letting that be _enough_ for now.

His voice stops her at the doorway. “River.” She turns her head, sees him focused on the charts. “Just cause we want a thing don't always mean we can have it.”

She waits until she is secure in her bunk with the door drawn shut, buried in a bed that's still strange, before she gives in to a storm of both _hope_ and _misery_.


	12. Touched

River lurks in the doorway of the galley, a thing she has extraordinary talent for. Leaving her feet _free_ of confines allows both direct communication with _Serenity_ and the ability to move without sound. This is how she has come to be standing here, watching a man who's made himself increasingly difficult to get alone.

“Sometimes I think about you. In my bunk. At night.”

She has definitely caught Mal by surprise, as he jumps up and whirls to face her, nearly causing his mug to meet with the floor. “ _Wo de ma_ , I can't be _hearing_ that!”

“Your voice has gone perceptibly higher,” she says, moving past him to sit down. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”

“Damn right you have. Ain't right to be tellin' a man those sorts of things.” His voice has returned to its normal register, but he hasn't sat down again, doesn't _trust_ the air in the room.

“Sorry, Captain,” she says, though she's well aware her grin makes her words a lie, tries to smooth her face. “Want to tell you a story, though. A serious one.”

“And it don't involve what you do in your bunk at night?”

“No,” she says softly, meeting his eyes so he will see the _truth_ in hers. He sits reluctantly; poised for flight, but sitting all the same. “It's a very old story, from ancient times on Earth-That-Was. About a girl named Cassandra.” She pauses, but there's no hint of recognition from him; perhaps one poem was as much as could be expected. “She'd been cursed by the gods, could see the truth of things. But no one ever believed what she said. Called her crazy. Ignored her.” He's watching her steadily now; he's no fool, sees her parallels clearly enough. “She was never wrong, but they didn't listen. So she lost everything and everyone she loved, and no one came to a good end. Because they all thought they knew better.”

She meets his eyes, and there's a universe of _possibility_ between them for a second, so clear before her eyes that she could put her hand inside and give it to him.

Then he stands, turns away from her, and she sighs, watching her universe fade away.

“It's a sad story, albatross. But that's the way of things at times, as I see it. Can't all be happy endings.”

“Mal-”

“No, River,” he says, walking away. “Leave it.”

***

Flying gives a man a lot of time to think, and these last few days, his mind keeps drifting back to that story of hers. He recalls full well plenty of times in the past where River had something worthwhile to say, if only they'd known how to listen. It's his belief that she knows her own mind well enough now, ought to be allowed to choose her own life. If only he could convince her that, as choices go, he's one as would be like to bring her more bad than he's worth.

Not like there's any lack of chances to, way that woman likes sneaking up on him, catching him with his thoughts on her. “Ain't always ignored your words, you know,” he says, alerted by her reflection in front of him, not needing to look around to know she's hanging on the edge of the doorway.

“Yes,” she says, walking across the bridge to her station, not seeming the least bit bothered at being caught out. “Paid for what I didn't want to know.”

The memory of Wash drifts between them, and Mal's chair suddenly feels a mite more uncomfortable than usual.

“You fought with Zoë over him,” she says, pulling thoughts into speech in her creepifying way.

“Didn't so much fight about it as have a rather prickly talk. Zoë don't do much of her fighting with words,” he says.

“Why was it bad? They loved each other. Couldn't be kept apart even by you.”

“That's the substance of what Zoë told me, in less friendly terms.” He frowns, remembering that. They had, in fact, been the kind of terms that told him precisely where he could stow his disapproval. “Romance among the crew makes for all manner of problems. People get distracted, they get tetchy, then 'fore you know it they don't like each other no more and you lose a good member of your crew over it.”

“You allowed it, though. Allow Simon and Kaylee too.”

“Didn't have much choice, you've seen the way Kaylee looks when she wants something. Man would have to be a monster to deny that face.”

“But you shut me out.”

The black isn't giving him any answers tonight, just reflects his own fears back at him. “Have to let my crew take their own risks. But y'all look to me, and I gotta protect you best I can. There's too many I've lost already.” He looks at her, perched in her chair, and a near visceral shudder of dread goes through him at the thought of losing her too. “You go, you take the doc with you, I know that well enough. Can't risk losing you, River.”

“So you won't have me because you don't want to lose me?” The withering look she gives him clearly says he hasn't got the brains of a monkey.

“Sounded a mite less foolish before you said it,” he admits, but foolish or not, it's the truth. The memory of Wash sighs in his head, calls him a coward, and Mal's forced to agree. But he's always been one to know when a risk is acceptable, and when to turn and run, protect what's too precious to gamble with at all.

***

In the grit and heat of the cargo bay, River perches on a box and _watches_. Mal is loading up the cargo, rough crates of produce covered in the red dust and clay of this planet, and her eyes are fascinated by the way of him, by the movement of him, the dance of his muscles in the _lift_ , _turn_ , _step_ pattern.

He knows she is watching, she is certain of this. The rest of the crew is absent, and she no longer takes pains to hide herself from him, to cover her desire under layers of fog and stolen glances. But he says nothing to her, doesn't so much as look at her, and his determination to ignore is smothering River near as much as the baking sun outside.

She unfolds herself from her perch, steps down, and sets herself almost lazily to intercept him.

“Mal,” she says, head cocked, considering whether the feel of him would be like the taste of sun-warmed raspberries.

He finally rests from his constant movement, pausing near her. “You got something to say then, River? Cause I tell you, it grates on a man's nerves after a bit, feelin' like he's putting on a show for you.”

“Mal,” she says again, softer, placing cool narrow fingers on his arm, feeling the heat sear her skin. “Please.”

He does not look up at her. Instead he stares down at the point where they are joined, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough. _Dangerous_. “Watch there, darlin', your hands'll get dirty.”

River knows her swift indrawn breath is audible, and he breaks away, turns back to his work without another word, leaving her feeling feverish in the bright sunlight.

***

He's taking inventory of their weapons, going through the storage locker piece by piece, making sure everything's properly cleaned and in its place. River's balanced on a crate nearby, lying on her back with her hair cascading off one end, her skirt slid so high up her thighs it's taking an effort on his part to be even an alright man. It's strange, but he's finding as the weeks go by, he minds less and less the way she appears behind him with regularity; finds a certain satisfaction in her conversation, in the logical way she tries to go about dismantling his every argument. He's beginning to run out of new reasons to deny her, truth be told, but it's never been said he's a man who lacks imagination. Today though, he's distracted by her, by the shape of her draped over that crate, and his reasoning ain't as inventive as it might be.

“I'm too old for you, darlin', and that's the plain truth of it. People already think little enough of me, don't need to add to it by taking up with a girl half my age.”

“Only people who don't know you think little of you. And you don't care what they think. Anyhow, age is just a number based on irrelevant and outdated measurements of time. Doesn't have _meaning_.”

He laughs a bit, but it's lacking in humor. “You think that now. But – and I'm taking a risk here and presuming you want more'n just a tumble outta me – what 'bout ten years down the line when you're in your prime and I'm getting old?”

She lifts herself off the crate and stands in one smooth motion. “You think that's what I care for?” she asks, moving in front of him. “I appreciate the package,” she says, her voice soft, “but it's the substance that matters.” She brushes her fingers across his forehead. “Here. Was your belief and your will that helped save me, not your body.”

He takes a step back, hoping she can't read what even her slightest touch does to him, how hard it's getting to keep his hands to himself. “Was sure as hell my body that took the grief for it, as I recall.”

“Yes,” she says, reclaiming her place on the crate. “I wouldn't let it happen again.”

Damned if he knows whether that's advice or a promise.

***

River is growing tired, tired of _pushing_ through his thoughts to search out his emotions. Even after all her careful work, the pages of his mind are not easily deciphered, blocking her, at times, from all but the most unguarded thoughts. She tells herself that this is _good_ , that it is _proper_ and she shouldn't be prying where she's no right to be anyhow. That he _wants_ her comes through clearly enough; still, she is lost as to the way to breach his wall of reserve, to turn wanting into having. And as days have lengthened into weeks, and more, she finds herself slowly _freezing_ inside, the sparks she feels when they touch no longer _enough_ to keep ice from closing in around her.

Once, she had not understood love. Now she knows that each painful bit of _understanding_ brings only more _confusion_ in its wake, knows that this is something she can't unlock on her own. If love is an equation, she has only half the factors, needs him to complete the process.

They are on the bridge again, bonded by the black.

“Binary stars,” she says softly, picking out points in oblivion.

“What's that, darlin'?” Mal asks, rousing himself from silence.

“Binary stars. Two stars, both rotating around a common center of mass. Trapped in a cycle with each other, dancing but never touching. Destined to be alone together.”

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “River-”

“Don't,” she says, rising. “Can't _be_. Heard it before. Know it by heart.”

“What happened to that girl?” he asks, making her hesitate as she walks away. “Cassandra, the one from your old story?”

She looks back at him, wondering how long this can hurt, if anything short of _everything_ will ever give her enough of this man. “Selfish men stole her from her home, made her a slave. She died.” It's too close, too near _truth_ , and as she blinks back tears from her eyes, he's suddenly standing there before her, so close she doesn't dare to move.

“River, that will not happen to you again,” he says, his fingers hesitating before he brushes them against her cheek, as though he's afraid the contact will break one of them. “Not 'less I'm dead first, you understand?”

She turns her head, pressing her lips against his palm, and _knows_ one thing in the moment before a wave breaks the silence, separates them: this time, he welcomed her touch.


	13. Take Away the Divine

Though River still curses its poor timing, the wave has led them to a job, and she more than welcomes the prospects that it's brought about.

“Goin' to a fancy party! And with the Cap'n, too. You're a lucky one,” Kaylee says, winking at River, her grin bright as _Serenity's_ full burn.

They are in River's bunk, Kaylee filling it with delighted chatter as she helps button River into a long, dark blue dress. “Course, when I went to a shiny party with him, I got hauled back here by Badger 'n his goons, but I'm sure you'll have a much better time. And the job'll be simple, with you along.”

River is a hundred different things at once, pinning herself together by hanging on Kaylee's words, but mostly she is _excited_. Excited to be allowed on a job, excited to put her cursed talents to some use, and excited to be, at least for one night, on Mal's arm. Anticipation _hums_ through her blood, nearly drowning out Kaylee.

“It's such a romantic story, ain't it? Lady Shen givin' her lover those jewels of hers so's he'd have something to remember her by.”

“Is it?” River tilts her head, trying to work this out. To her it seems that _actions_ are more romantic than _symbols_ , and the actions of Lady Shen's lover, one Alexander Barrett, scion of an old wealthy family, have taken this tale galaxies away from the romantic.

“Oh, sure. Givin' her most shiny bits of precious as a token of her love. I think it's sweet.” Kaylee's face has gone all dreamy, though her practicality reasserts itself as she finishes with the buttons, moves on to comb out River's hair. “Course, suppose it would've been more romantic if she'd given him something her husband wouldn't notice the loss of. And if her man'd just give 'em back 'stead of being all high-and-mighty 'bout it, make us do the work of getting hold of them.”

“Yes,” River says, though in truth she is _grateful_ he has not, happy this job requires her _reading_ in order to locate and reacquire the precious in question. “Should have given something with more meaning and less substance.” She wrinkles her nose, willing her hair to untangle ahead of the comb's tugging teeth. “Or shouldn't have given anything at all when she had a husband smart enough to catch her.”

Kaylee giggles. “Apparently he's an old fella, watches her like a hawk. Bad luck for her that he's got an urge to see this 'ticular necklace on her when she gets her portrait done. Now, what kinda style you want for your hair?”

River squirms a bit as her hair is pulled back and gathered up, memories of its confinement at her mother's hands rising. “Like it down. Safer. More freedom.”

“Well,” says Kaylee, making a face that usually speaks of elusive trouble in the engine, “that ain't quite proper for a fancy party like this one, but I was never any good with those beautiful styles Inara could do no how. What if we just pull it back like this?” she asks, fastening River's hair at the base of her neck.

She turns River to face the room's small mirror, and River sees a _girl_ who is a woman, an _almost-exactly-River_. “It's not me,” she says. “But near enough to pass.”

“You look beautiful,” Kaylee says, handing her the hateful _shoes_ she must wear. Her beloved boots have no place in a polished world.

“Beautiful enough to play the Captain's wife?” River asks, a grin big enough to match Kaylee's spreading over her face. That is part of tonight's _wishful_ fiction, the false tickets providing their entree to the party coming with a _matched_ pair of names.

“Oh honey, those boys won't know what to say, they see you lookin' like such a lady. Much too good for the likes of them. Though Cap'n does clean up nice, I admit.”

This is _truth_ , River decides, emerging from her bunk to find the man himself waiting for her.

“Took you girls long enough,” he says, heading off down the passage with River at his side. “Was 'bout to climb down there, find out what in hell you two were playin' at.”

“Aw, Cap'n,” Kaylee protests, following them. “Ain't you even gonna tell a girl she looks nice?”

“You look gorgeous as ever, little Kaylee,” Mal says, grinning over his shoulder at his mechanic.

“Gee thanks, Captain!” she calls, leaving Mal and River to pass on through the galley and along the passage towards the shuttle alone.

River says nothing, concentrating on one step at a time, carefully reconciling _herself_ with this _almost-exactly-River_ woman she has become, fitting them together in the tight confines of her dress.

Even so, she has the _attention_ to spare to notice Mal's eyes traveling her length, taking her in. “You look very fine too, albatross,” he says with just the hint of a smirk, just enough to make her breath _catch_ and her cheeks warm.

Still, there is enough of _herself_ to be flippant. “Look nice yourself, Captain Tightpants.”

“Don't go puttin' your attention where it oughtn't be now, darlin',” he says, but there's amusement under his voice.

Entering the shuttle, her stomach _flutters_ ; not just with nerves for the job to come, but because she can feel, warm against the small of her back, the slightest touch of his hand, guiding her into place.


	14. A Confident Liar

Though this is a mere border planet estate – one of several homes for the Barretts, a family even wealthier than her own had been – the ballroom it houses is elegant to the point of being overdone. Despite her fine dress and smoothed hair, River feels _other_ , feels like a child at parties too dull and big for her again. Only here there is no Simon to hide with in a corner, while she makes pointed comments about the bigger and prettier girls and their flirtatious ways. Here she must fit in and _be_ one of those girls, be the Captain's trophy, bright and shining and warm. She takes _charm_ from Kaylee, _elegance_ from the memory of Inara, and _confidence_ from Zoë, blends them all into a mask, and gratefully hides _River_ behind it.

So she is able to enter the room, hand tucked in the crook of his arm; able to glide through the crowd and nod to others with the proper inclination of her head. Able to feel, and so to appear, _beautiful_ and _poised_.

They take up a spot across from the orchestra, and even under her _mask_ River sees the pattern of music pouring from them, lets her mind spin out onto the floor, her toes tapping just slightly as she sways gently next to Mal.

She can _feel_ their target weaving his way among the crowd, but for this moment, the music is all. The job can wait.

***

Mal can feel the change in her as they walk into the room, like she's borrowed another personality for the night. The graceful but skittish girl that is River is suddenly absent, leaving him with an elegant woman who, he's noticing all over again, is stunning in her simplicity.

He can feel her moving next to him, sees the dreamy look in her eyes, and guesses right off what she wants.

“Ain't gonna be getting me out on that dance floor, albatross, so you can just stop that toe-tapping of yours,” he leans down to whisper in her ear.

She gives no sign of being displeased, instead smiles sweetly and turns her head to whisper back, “What makes you think I'd want you? You'd hold me back.”

“'Spose I would, darlin',” he says, keeping his voice even, wondering why in hell he feels affronted when she's only saying what he's been wanting her to for weeks now. “Still, need you to focus on the job now, find our man Barrett the younger. Pull out of his head where we need to be going to from here, get this job done.”

“Not necessary to search,” she says. “Already on the hunt for new prey.”

“May not look 'xactly like the albatross I'm used to, but you sure do sound like her,” Mal mutters, wondering what in hell she's on about now.

He doesn't have to ponder on it for long though, as a fine young gentleman Mal doesn't like the look of one bit is approaching them, and River's giving the handsome _sha gua_ a smile all full of sweet charm.

“I don't believe we've been introduced,” he says, speaking to Mal but looking at River. “I'm Alexander Barrett.”

Mal's eyebrows raise involuntarily. “You must be the son of our good host then. Kind of you to take notice of us. Duncan Armin,” he says, offering a handshake that is, strictly speaking, a bit more firm than necessary. “This is my wife, Julia,” he adds reluctantly, somehow managing not to trip over either the false names or the words _my wife_. At his side, River is serene, her smile faltering not one bit as Barrett kisses her hand, lingering over the job, his thumb stroking her knuckles.

“The pleasure is all mine, I'm sure,” Barrett says, his eyes fixed on River in a way that's making Mal more than happy they'll be robbing this man before the night is out. “I couldn't help but notice, sir, that your wife seems eager to dance. Perhaps you'll allow me...?” He's grasped River's free hand before he's finished his request, and something in Mal that he'd not wanted to be aware of snaps, has him reclaiming River's hand with a swiftness that startles them all.

“Sorry, Mr. Barrett,” he says, “but the lady's _my_ wife, and she's promised her first dance to me.”

Finding he's left himself with no choice, he pulls River out onto the floor with him, grateful for small mercies in that he knows this dance. Luckily, the only toes he might chance to step on will belong to his copilot, who ought to have the foresight to avoid him.

***

River's mind would be filled with dazzling shock, but she is not _River_ , she is the woman in the mask, and so she is only what is politely termed _bemused_.

“He's very handsome,” she says; a _test_ of the waters, Mal's instant dislike of their mark having been so blatant.

“You think so? Thought he looked a bit girly, myself,” Mal responds, his lips thin.

“He thinks you're a jealous old man, you know. Overprotective of what's yours.” She wrinkles her nose at the thought of being _owned_ by anyone, briefly cracking the mask.

“Let him,” says Mal, staring over her head towards Barrett. “He don't have you, and I -” He cuts himself off, and she must be _adroit_ to avoid his feet.

“And you what?” She is determined not to let him twist away now, not when the _hope_ inside her is greedily reaching out for more.

“I didn't like the way he was looking at you, is all.” Mal's expression is unreadable, still gazing over her head, looking anywhere but at her.

“He was looking at me like a woman,” she says severely, frustration mounting.

“No, darlin', he was looking at you like he wanted you in his bed,” Mal snaps, finally meeting her eyes. “And that wasn't showing respect to either of us.”

She tilts her head to the side, _considering_ , drawing on the qualities of her mask to guide her words. “Does that bother you? That other men should want me? It's not as if you'd have a say in where I give myself.”

Mal's eyes narrow; she knows she has _hit_. “I'm your Captain.”

“We're not on the ship,” she counters.

“I'm your _husband_ ,” he says, voice growing dangerous.

“Not honestly,” she says, letting _River_ process the thrills that accompany his words while the mask dances on, not missing a step.

“For tonight I am. And you damn well better act like it.”

“Giving me orders outside the ship? Poor form,” she says, knowing she is _pushing_ him, yet intoxicated with it, unable to pull back. “And are you certain that's one you'd like followed? You've said just the opposite so often.”

His eyes, and his tone, are now deadly serious. “Giving you orders _on a job_ , woman. And you will focus on that job and not go 'round distracting yourself with other men, am I clear?”

She has _pushed_ far enough; he has given all that he will, and she retreats, her smile bright and frozen in place. “Perfectly clear.”

They dance on in silence until she feels him relax under her hands; feels the _anger_ and _jealousy_ recede before she allows _herself_ to peek out, letting him know she is still there, under the mask. “Am I still allowed to distract myself with you?” The smile she gives him now is hesitant, slightly crooked, belongs to _River_.

He stares at her for a split second before rolling his eyes. “Gorramit, woman, I am never lettin' you off my boat again, you hear?”

She laughs, and that, too, is purely _River_.


	15. Didn't Mean Anything

As they leave the dance floor, Mal steering them away from Barrett, he asks, “You did manage to get the intel we need off our man, when you weren't too busy gazin' into his eyes, I take it?”

River resists the urge to roll her own eyes, putting the _mask_ firmly back in place and only allowing herself a bit of a sigh. “Yes. Upstairs, East wing, third door on the left, small safe in the back of the closet.”

“Shiny.” Though he's speaking to her, Mal's eyes are elsewhere, _searching_ and _noting_ and _planning_ , just for contingency's sake. “Got any ideas as to how we can get up there without attracting all manner of unwelcome attention?”

River _pauses_ , seeks out a plausible target, _flips_ through thoughts until she has enough to create _plans_ of her own. “This way,” she says, sliding through the crowd and out onto a balcony. From there, it's a simple matter of several darkened rooms, two doorways, three turns, and one back staircase to reach their destination. It's an easy game, threading her way through this maze free of any pursuit; she enjoys it, enjoys having a purpose in guiding Mal.

It is not until they reach the closet in Alexander Barrett's bedroom that they run into _difficulty_. The code-lock on the door River had expected, having pulled its code from Barrett's mind as his fingers crept across her flesh. The old fashioned key lock below it, however, is an unwelcome sight.

“Don't suppose lockpicking is among your hidden talents?” Mal asks without much hope, kneeling down to peer at the offending keyhole.

River is about to admit that it is not, but that the lock could likely _teach_ her, when a more pressing problem _pushes_ gently into her head, growing larger with every step.

She has just enough time to put a finger to Mal's lips for silence and slip out of the closet, turning off its light behind her, before Alexander appears in the room.

Her instinct is to _fight_ , to take him down swiftly and be done with it. But he has left the door open, and there is now a couple in the hall behind – _involved_ in their own passions, but not enough, she thinks, to miss that kind of spectacle. And her clothing, long tangling skirts and unfamiliar shoes, inhibits her preferred tactics, makes her unsure of her footing. It is best, perhaps, to leave combat in Mal's hands.

Behind the mask, she smiles. If not the _weapon_ , then she must be the _woman_. She draws up all she can of Inara, the security of _pretending_ , and allows _herself_ to drop away.

Alexander is already approaching her, one eyebrow raised, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “Madame...Armin, isn't it? Are you lost, my dear? I very much doubt your husband would approve of you finding yourself in a strange man's bedroom.”

River's mind is _darting_ , humming through the room from man to man, the conflicting storms of _hot_ and _dark_ emotions pressing down on her so she can hardly think. Still, she gathers her _mask_ with a breath, faces him boldly.

“Not lost at all, sir,” she says, gliding closer. “As for my husband, you don't need to worry about him. He's a fool. Just uses me for show, doesn't honestly care for me. It's no effort to outwit him.”

Alexander laughs quietly, deep in his throat, a sound that makes River want to shudder, to turn and run. “A fool indeed, to not value his prize. Perhaps,” he says, closing the door behind him, “you might allow me to find worth where he does not?”

“I've heard tales of the way you fulfill a woman's needs,” she says, placing her hands on his shoulders, framing _truth_ as precisely what he wants to hear. “That's why I came up here, to get _exactly_ what I'm looking for.” As she speaks, sliding her arms over Alexander's shoulders, drawing him closer, she manages to turn them until his back is to the closet, beckons with a hand now behind his head for Mal.

“And how, little minx, did you know which room was mine, I wonder?” Alexander asks, pressing her against the door, fingering a bit of hair that has come loose around her face. He seems uninterested in information other than the _taste_ of her neck, though, as he lowers his lips to her skin, tracing his fingers over her collarbone.

River hopes dearly that her gasp will be _mistaken_ by him for one of lust, and gives serious reconsideration to the _advisability_ of attempting to kick a man in the crotch while wearing heeled shoes as his fingers travel to the neckline of her dress.

“Let's see if we can't erase the memory of that _lao bao jun_ and his touch, hmm?” he whispers in her ear, making her tense up with a shudder.

Fortunately, the next sound he makes is a rather inarticulate groan, as Mal hits him in the back of the head with a substantial paperweight. River stands motionless for a moment, as the last of the _mask_ crumbles and the _woman_ beneath shakes off lingering echoes of _disgust_.

“Real pile of charm, ain't he?” Mal says, searching Alexander's pockets until he comes up with a small gold key. “Sorry to have interrupted your interlude there,” he says coldly, when she still doesn't move, “but we do have us a job needs to be done, best get on with it.”

It is only moments later, after they have dragged Alexander into the closet and liberated not only Lady Shen's jewels, but a good many other shiny trinkets, that River's mind begins gathering pieces again, realizes Alexander was not the only man to _mistake_ her reactions.

“Mal,” she begins, there not being enough glares in the world to express how _stupid_ he's being, even if he _would_ look at her, “it wasn't-”

“Ain't got no time for chatter, River,” he cuts her off, pocketing several bags, handing her the one with Lady Shen's necklace and turning away as she pulls up her skirt to strap it to her thigh, where it will lie hidden in the folds of her dress. “Just doin' the job, right?” The smile he gives her is gone in an instant, held no trace of _warmth_ anyhow.

“Mal,” she tries again, but it is too late, he's pulling her out of the room, maneuvering her out ahead of him as they pass back down the stairs.

“Just get us back to where we're supposed to be so's we can get out of here 'fore anyone misses that grabby piece of _go se_.”

With no choice, River leads the way, hoarding her scraps of _hurt_ and _bitterness_ through the darkened rooms, out into the bright ballroom. Lets them smolder into an _anger_ of her own to match Mal's as they slip through the doors unchallenged, making their way back to the shuttle. And waits under a quiet, building _fury_ for the peace of _Serenity_.


	16. Betray Your Wisdom

Flying the shuttle back to _Serenity_ , Mal can hardly see the night sky in front of him for the images playing in his mind.

He'd watched from that closet in the darkness, expecting to see River drop Barrett like a stone.

He hadn't expected her to make conversation with the man, to let him put his hands on her. And he sure as hell hadn't expected her to make such a convincing show of enjoying it.

He remembers creeping out of that closet, miffed that she thought he'd need a signal. He remembers picking up the paperweight with a certain amount of grim satisfaction. And then he can't seem to recall anything but the sight of her with another man; her head thrown back, eyes closed, gasping at his touch, shuddering in his arms.

Coming back to the present with a start, he realizes he's managed to dock with _Serenity_ with his mind off in a dark place; a place where he's caught between wishing he'd hit Barrett hard enough to kill him and wishing that he could have _been_ him. That he could just let it be that simple and take what she's offered him so many times.

But out in the black, being better than that is all he has. Keeping his family safe and whole is his entire purpose, and he will hold to that, he tells himself. No matter what the temptation.

It's too damn bad for him then that temptation's got herself planted right in front of the door, not looking like she's got any intention of letting him pass.

***

“You're not leaving,” River says, willing herself into a column of _steel_. “Not until you listen.”

“You giving the orders on my boat now?” He's glowering at her, would push her aside if that didn't mean _touching_ her.

“ _Serenity_ would want you to listen. Wants peace inside her.”

His eyes narrow and he crosses his arms over his chest, but remains still. “Speak your piece then. But make it snappy.”

She closes her eyes, takes _courage_ from _hope_. “It didn't mean anything. What I did with him. Wasn't real, didn't have substance.”

“That so?” He rocks back on his heels, raising his eyebrows. “Sure looked to be substance there to me. But then, I'm just a fool who's usin' you and don't really have a care for you, wasn't that it?”

“Mal-” For a moment her mind is overcome with _flares_ of exasperation, so that the words come out all _scrambled_. “No _emotion_ , no _reality_ , painted players on a stage, all dressed up for amusement. Only a gorram idiot can't see them reading out the lines!” She winces, pulling the _fragments_ of disorder into _focus_ one by one. Not quite what she intended to say, but Mal has always been good at speaking her language, even if his clenched fists give away the fact that he doesn't much care to _listen_ this time.

“Well,” he says tightly, “now I got me another insult to add to tonight's growing list. If that's all you got to say, think I'll be heading out now.” He moves towards her, a dark tide of _jealousy_ and _confusion_ and _fear_ traveling with him, washing over her, but she is _strong_ , doesn't bend, doesn't move an inch.

“No,” she says, meeting his eyes, clear now on his reasons for being willfully _obtuse_. “I shouldn't have to apologize. The fault isn't mine. It bothers you and you don't want it to, so you blame me. It isn't fair.”

He makes no response to this, doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed of himself, and River feels the embers of fury catching again.

“You haven't the right to be bothered. Offered it to you time and time again, and you didn't take it. So, _Captain_ , what gives you the right to _care_ whose hands are on me?”

“ _Qing-wa cao de liu mang_ ,” Mal curses, turning away and running a hand through his hair as he rants, before turning back just as suddenly. “This does,” he says roughly, and then his mouth is on hers and her world has never been so _whole_.

***

The bit of her brain always engaged in _analysis_ notes that for a first kiss, it does not lack for _passion_. But mostly, as fury melts into desire, spiraling down into her core, River _feels_. Feels her hands on his face, his on the back of her neck and in her hair, their pressure only driving her want for _more_. Feels his mouth on hers, stirring up a response deep inside her, a hot, sharp ache that she wants to go on forever. Feels _love_ , and does her best to make her mouth say it without words.

***

As his mouth meets hers, he knows instantly it's a mistake. Her lips are soft and yielding against his, sending an electric response all along his body, like he's a teenager out in back of the barn with his first sweetheart again. All at once it's like a wave rushing over him – every brief touch between them, every longing look full of desire she's given him, the way her back is arching now, pressing every inch of her up flush and hard against him.

He knows to the core it's a mistake, because now that he's felt this, he will _never_ stop wanting more of her.

***

It's Mal who breaks the contact first, pulling back just slightly. Resting his forehead against hers, he feels the warmth of her breath against his fingers, still lingering on her cheek. He can't seem to get enough breath back to speak himself, doesn't know what he'd say anyhow, but knows well enough he's willing to give in to the pressure of her fingers on the back of his neck, lower his mouth to hers again-

If only the door hadn't slid open.

“Sir, I got a wave from Lady- Woah...” Zoë does a quick about-face mid-step, shielding her eyes. “You want me to come back when you're finished there, Captain?”

Mal is well and truly lost for words, can only stand there with his mouth open, adding _huge potential for embarrassment_ to his mental list of the negatives of shipboard romances. “Zoë...I...um. We were just – weren't what it looks like. Got a little carried away with...the job,” he manages, feeling like a right proper fool.

Now Zoë's giving him the most skeptical eyebrow known to man. “Uh huh. Makin' sure River hadn't swallowed any of the loot, were you?”

“No!” he says, wondering if he's got some kinda curse on him when it comes to kissing women. “Not like I meant for this to happen – I sure as hell didn't _plan_ to be kissin' River!” Turning to the woman in question, he sees she's got a narrow-eyed expression that promises he'll pay for that later – which he hardly considers as fair, seeing as she ought to be able to read from him perfectly well that if he had the choice he'd be kissing her again-

“If you'll excuse me, _Captain_ ,” she says stiffly, sweeping out of the shuttle and down the catwalk in her finery without so much as a backwards glance.

Zoë watches her go, then turns back to Mal, no trace of skepticism or mocking on her face now. “Honestly, sir – what the hell was that?”

Mal crosses his arms, tries his best to look imposing. “What it was, Zoë, was none of your business. Ain't like it's the first time somebody's seen somethin' on this boat wasn't meant for sharing.”

He curses himself for saying it as soon as it's left his mouth, watches her face tighten for a second; they both know who was responsible for most of those accidentally public moments of intimacy. But all she says is, “True enough. But what do you think her brother'll say, he catches you laying hands on her?”

He sighs, as that thought's occurred to him more than once. Doc might not be any kind of a brawler, but he does pack a punch when it comes to River. “Don't know that I see it matters, her and I both being adults with our own minds to make up,” he says, starting the long walk up to the bridge. “All the same, I'd appreciate you keeping this to yourself.”

“Of course, sir,” Zoë responds, and if she's offended he even thought to ask, it doesn't show in her tone. Never does. “But Mal-” she stops him with a hand on his arm. “You sure you know what you're doing with her? I won't deny she's been more stable lately, but...” she pauses, and Mal guesses she's as reluctant as he is to speak of the days before Miranda. To remember River not as a capable pilot and whole, if somewhat _eccentric_ , person, but instead as an occasionally violent girl in the grip of an unpredictable psychosis.

He pauses, knowing if he owes the truth to anyone, it's the first mate who's stood by him through everything the 'verse could throw at them. “Truthfully, Zoë, I got no idea where I am with this. I'm wanderin' in the black.” But even as he says it, he's thinking on the beauty of River, the way she's managed to dance her way under his skin these last months without him hardly knowing it. “But I mean to find out.”

There's a long silence before she nods, takes her hand off his arm. “Alright then.”

He smiles at her – just a bit, just enough – before turning back for the bridge, saying, “Now, this wave – Lady Shen getting antsy already?” And he's finding, as he walks, that his step's lighter than it's been in months.


	17. The Sound of the Sun

Lying on her bed, River stares up at the metal ceiling, with all the 'verse shining in her eyes.

She's lost in the _otherworld_ of memories – her own memories, _real_ and recorded from each of her senses, playing over and over before her eyes, across her skin, against her lips.

So lost she doesn't hear the crackle of the com, doesn't even hear the door of her bunk open and close. Doesn't notice Mal until he's standing over her, hands on his hips.

She's on her feet in a single motion, _memory_ switched off, _present_ annoyance rising to the fore again, making her voice cool.

“Captain. Is there something you require?”

“Is, as a matter of fact. Which is why I asked you to come up to the bridge twice now. You wanna tell me why you're seein' fit to ignore me?” Mal crosses his arms, matching her _defensiveness_ with his own.

Not wishing to admit _I was lost in the memory of you and me and more, please god, give me more_ out loud, she falls into a _half-truth_ instead.

“Wasn't sure of your intentions. Wouldn't want to disrupt any more of your _plans_ , make you do things you didn't mean.” She turns away to keep her hands from reaching out, _reliving_. “And don't make faces,” she adds, as he rolls his eyes behind her.

“How do you- alright, first, I hate it when you do that, second, ain't kind to hold what a man says in a moment of surprise against him! 'Specially when you oughta know full well those words didn't mean a thing.”

“And you should have known mine didn't. On the job.”

“Could be I acted a mite foolish there,” he says. “But you gotta remember I can't go 'round hearing what's in your head. We ain't all like you.”

She keeps her back turned, _knowing_ that's as close to an apology as she's likely to get, that to _push_ him further is mere petulance, but unable to help herself. “Should trust me. You shouldn't have to know my thoughts to be able to admit your own.”

“And just what's that supposed to mean?”

“You're scared all the time. Hiding things. Don't want people to see what you feel. I don't want to be in your thoughts if you're just going to hide me away too.”

“River,” he says with a sigh, then abruptly changes course with a sharp laugh. “No. No, I am not havin' this conversation. I'll be more'n willing to talk to you when you're willing to listen, but for now, you'll kindly be giving me Lady Shen's necklace and I'll be on my way.”

The necklace. River had almost forgotten it, a cold bit of _weight_ strapped to her thigh, under the skirts of the blue dress she has not yet removed. Now, as her mind cries out against the thought of Mal leaving her, curses their _stubbornness_ for bringing them to this point, the weight brushes against her, a seductive whisper.

River _hears_ , and turns, the trace of a smile on her face. “No.”

Mal's eyebrows raise. “Uh, 'scuse me? Don't think I can be hearing you right, cause-”

“I said no,” she says, cutting him off. “Want something done,” she continues, giving a dramatic sigh as she sits on her bed, “have to do it yourself.”

She'd be tempted to laugh, tell Mal his face was bound to stick that way if he kept up that expression, if only her blood wasn't _rushing_ so fast she's gripping the edge of the bed just to stay _steady_.

He stares at her for a long moment before lowering himself to kneel at her feet, setting his hands to her ankle. “Don't try me, darlin',” he says, not taking his eyes off hers as his hands slide up, past her knee, into _softer_ territory.

She's aware, dimly, that her breathing's grown more rapid, shallow breaths past her lips that leave her brain _swimming_. But most of her awareness is focused on the _pressure_ of his fingers against her skin as he releases the catch, lets the necklace fall to the floor.

He doesn't move, and she's taken for a brief instant by the _picture_ of them, his arms buried to the elbow in the sea of her dress, before instinct _breathes_ in the back of her brain and she slides her legs apart, feels his fingers tighten on her thigh.

“Mal,” she whispers, leaning forward until her lips nearly touch his. “Said you were my husband for tonight. _Act_ like it.”

***

He knows the second he puts his hands on her that he's lost whatever challenge was between them in this room, but he's finding it hard to care when losing feels so smooth and warm under his fingers.

He wants her, as he lets their stolen loot drop without a thought, bad enough to suffer any kind of hell. It's not just the softness of her skin, it's the pulse he can see in her neck, the way her eyes don't leave his even as she starts breathing quicker, losing control. There's trust there, and wanting, and something more he's still too much of a coward to name.

And when she parts her legs for him, whispers those words against his mouth, he loses control himself. Before he can barely form a thought he's kissing her hard, reaching out with one hand to pull her to the edge of the bed while the other slides further up, ridding her of her underclothes. It's only as he hears her gasp, breaking away from the kiss and biting her lip, that he comes back to himself, remembers where he is and who he's got under his hands.

As he stands up, offering her a hand to pull her to feet, he sees the confusion on her face, under the flush of color. “What's the matter?” she asks, reaching up to touch his face before he captures that hand too. “Wasn't I doing it right?”

“Were doin' just fine, darlin',” he says, turning her so her back's to him. “Doing all too well, in fact, making me forget myself.” He groans to himself, looking at the endless row of tiny buttons down the back of her dress, wonders why in hell women's clothes gotta be so impractical. “But I don't intend to be takin' you like a ruttin' animal. Not this time, at least.”

***

River stands silent, on the edge, fluttering with nerves. She can feel the quick pull and release of every button as Mal works his way down, past her ribs to the small of her back. Her breath is coming faster, and she feels she can barely stand, will surely _collapse_ under the pressure he's adding with each small release. Turning her head slightly, eyes lowered, she watches the movement of his arm, and when he reaches the end of the row, she goes on standing there. She feels she will _shatter_ if she doesn't touch him, but her _instinct_ tells her to remain. So she does, listening to the rustle of fabric behind her _announce_ Mal's movements, the quiet thumps of his shoes, the soft whisper of bit after bit of clothing hitting the floor.

She's standing there still when Mal reaches back up, his hands hovering just over her shoulders, leaving trails of _anticipation_ trembling down her spine.

“You're sure you want this, River?” he says, his lips brushing against her ear.

She finds her throat too _tight_ for words, needs to swallow before she can speak. “Please, Mal,” she says, her voice a bare whisper. “Don't stop.”

Slowly, he pulls the unbuttoned dress from her shoulders, slides it down her arms, his fingers leaving _chills_ along her heated skin. And when his hands trace over the curves of her body, down to her waist before pushing the dress down over her hips, she shivers and _laughs_ in pure delight, and feels his hands turning her, guiding her down to the bed.

***

River's thoughts have _flown_ ; she cannot control them, cannot control anything under Mal's hands, his lips, his tongue. She abandons herself to _feeling_ , to flying through a storm of pleasure.

 _Amazing. Sliding, pushing, rising, yes, please god let me feel this always. Pulsing, rushing, more_ more _– want this, drowning in all I've wanted, love_ -

And it's too much, leaves her gasping for breath; there's too much _feeling_ and she reaches out, groping alongside until she touches metal, feels the solidness of _Serenity_ beneath her palm, _shares_ with her -

 _Higher, closer. More, Mal, more. Please, never knew. Felt but didn't know. This is life, this is sun, this is a new kind of flying. Desire, want, I believe, oh how I believe. More, yes._

 _Yes._

 _Love. Mal. Serenity._

River _understands_ , and her hand, cool from the metal, slides over Mal's back, holding him close.

***

It is _after_ , and the world is different for River, enough _new_ to keep her mind occupied for weeks.

Mal is next to her, watching her face as she stares into the ceiling, watching her smile ebb and flow as her brain _categorizes_ and _reports_ and _relives_ what has happened. “You gonna tell me what's in that head of yours, albatross?” he asks as her smile widens.

“Everything,” she says, not having the ability to formulate _coherence_ just yet. “But nothing bad.” Her eyebrows draw together as she considers. “Will it get better? I've learned from Kaylee the first time isn't to be judged by, that it's supposed to get better.”

Mal grimaces, shifts uneasily. “Well now, darlin', you sure know how to rob a man of his confidence. Did I hurt you, that it was bad as all that?”

She turns to face him, eyes wide. “No, not bad at all. The pain was minimal. I just thought – if it gets even better, can we start right away?”

He laughs at this, tucks his arm under her shoulders, pulling her against him. “See there's certain things Kaylee didn't get to explaining. Gotta give a man a bit of time.”

“A poor design, I think.”

He chuckles again. “Promise I'll give you everything I can, soon as I'm able,” he says, and though she knows he is speaking _physically_ , her mind catches on his, hears the echoes of _emotionally_ behind it.

“Mal,” she says, laying her hand over his heartbeat, “emotions – just chemicals floating in the brain, pressing triggers. But they create our reality. Bond us to each other.” She shifts, looking up into his eyes. “I know what you feel, even if you don't. It's alright.”

“Do you now?” he says, eyebrows rising, and for a moment she thinks he will _retreat_ back into flippancy, take cover again. “Be much obliged if you'd explain it to me, then. Never been too good at feeling things, much less talking 'bout 'em.”

“But you _are_ good at feeling. So good at it you feel for everyone on the ship, hold us all together.” She thinks for a moment, arranging the _fragments_ to suit her _purpose_. “Shepherd Book told you to believe. Didn't matter what, just to believe. What do you think you chose to believe in?”

He doesn't answer, and she touches his face, smiling. “Love, Mal,” she says, and knows from the look in his eyes before he kisses her that it's _enough_.


	18. Unbound

Their halcyon moment is broken by Simon's voice up in the passage. “River?” he calls, knocking perfunctorily before opening the door, as is his way. “Are you down here? I've been looking-”

He stops short on the ladder, _gaping_ in such a way that River has a nasty urge to inform him he resembles a sturgeon.

“Hello, Simon,” she says instead, waving a foot at him in greeting. “You should leave now.”

Simon is, of course, deaf to this advice. “I don't- _Ta ma de_ , River, what the _hell_ is going on here?”

Simon's voice has risen in volume, and Mal raises his hands peaceably before saying, “Now, doc, I understand this don't please you any, but might I remind you 'fore you come any closer about the talks we've had on you hittin' me-”

River cuts him off. “Simon, if you hurt him for this, I will hurt you.” She smiles pleasantly at her brother as his disbelieving eyes turn to her, making it clear that she loves him, but there are _limits_.

There are sounds up in the passage now; nothing _rouses_ the crew like the promise of a commotion.

“Simon, what's goin' on?” Kaylee asks, sticking her head in the doorway. “Oh my...” she says, spotting Mal, who's decided to brave it out, is now sitting up with his arms crossed, his best _not-really-amused_ expression on his face. “Well...ain't that sweet. Nice to see people enjoying each other, right Simon?”

Her _prompting_ does not reach Simon; he remains still and silent as Jayne's voice rumbles down to them.

“What's the ruckus for? Crazy doin' something new?”

This seems to _shake_ Simon from his daze, as he answers caustically, “Yes, she is. The Captain, as a matter of fact.”

“That so?” Jayne's head appears briefly beside Kaylee's. “Huh. Knew you was lyin' 'bout her, Capt'n.”

Mal rolls his eyes. “Anybody else like to come down, offer their opinion? Somebody wanna go get Zoë, make this moment complete?” Behind the _safety_ of his back, River allows herself to collapse into quiet giggles.

“Already here,” Zoë says, from somewhere behind Kaylee. “Permission to haul Simon out of there and go have a good laugh at your expense, sir?”

“Got a feeling y'all are gonna do that last part whether I say yes or no. But I'd be mighty pleased if you _all_ got the hell out of here, yes.”

As the others make their _retreat_ , River sits up behind Mal, sliding her arms around him and staring at Simon over his shoulder. “Have to leave me now, Simon,” she says. “I'll be fine.” She reads so many feelings pouring out of Simon, unfamiliar waves of emotion that have rooted him to the spot. _Anger_ , and _disbelief_ , but also a bit of _relief_ , and with it _guilt_. And under all that, as he looks at her smiling face, just a spark of _happiness_. “I want this. He'll keep me safe.”

After a long moment, Simon nods and exhales, shifting his eyes to Mal. “Captain. Do you recall what you told me when Kaylee and I finally...made things official?”

Mal nods, putting a hand over River's. _Officially_ hers. “Believe I told you something 'bout the sorry state you'd find yourself in if you hurt her.”

Simon looks back to River, his eyes telling her of the one final thing he has left to give her – _trust_. “Yes. The same applies to you now.” With that, he finally leaves, the door shutting solidly behind him.

They are silent for a moment, before River speaks. “That didn't go too badly, all things considered. I had expected fighting. Possibly blood. Estimated a twenty-three point five percent chance of serious injury occurring.”

“Didn't go too bad?” Mal says, not sounding half so calm as her. “Did you see the look on his face? Next time I get shot, he's like to leave me bleedin'!”

She laughs against his shoulder, _tightening_ her arms around him. “Kaylee wouldn't let him. I wouldn't let him. Besides,” she says, sliding around to straddle his lap, “you just have to keep me happy, and then he won't be too much bother.”

He smiles a bit, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I'll do my best for you, River.” As he trails his fingers over her cheek, down her neck, his expression changes, turns _serious_. “Not always gonna be good times, you understand. I can't promise you a smooth ride in this. We got a lot of things stacked up against us, and that's a fact.”

She smiles softly, understanding that this is how it will be. He will see the _pieces_ of things, the rise and fall of turbulence in their lives. She will see the _whole_ , the good and bad joining in _necessity_ to make them complete. “I know,” she says. “Things aren't always right. But you can't know floating without gravity.” She sees he doesn't _comprehend_ , pulls other words into place. “Can't have just the one. Can't have good without knowing bad. Parts of a single whole. Some bad things you learn to live around. And some you can change.”

He looks at her steadily, and his thoughts _darken_ with the knowledge of just how well they have both learned to live with _bad_. She can feel him pulling back from _believing_ , struggling still against _fear_ , for her as much as himself. “Some things you can't change, darlin', no matter how much you might want to.”

“Like what?” she asks, settling herself more comfortably in his lap, offering _reassurance_ with her body. Resting her head against his chest, she takes strength from the _hope-made-reality_ humming away within her, knowing there is _enough_ there to counter whatever he will say.

***

Mal sighs, resting his chin on her head as he puts his arms 'round her, smiling a bit at the way she's wrapped herself around him, like she needs to anchor him there. There's a mess of uncertainty in him to be sure, but he hasn't come this far with her only to turn away now. “We can't change who we are, albatross. Can't change what our lives have made us. We ain't the kind of people who get to go on happily ever after. Hell, it's all we can do to keep flying day to day.”

She lets out her breath in a sort of humming sigh against him, and he knows she's pondering on his words, making her own sense out of them. “No,” she says finally. “Not all things can be changed. Can't fix the past for us. But we can shape a future. Can make something to rely on.”

It's hard, damn hard, to have any kind of plans for the future. But she's looking at him unflinchingly, and he's taken again by the strength of her belief, so overwhelmed by her faith in him it's hard to resist believing for himself, just a little. “Well now, that may be so,” he says, trying his best to speak lightly, to draw back from the muddling fog of emotion, “but we got other issues. I got a whole mess of years on you, for one. Like to die well before you, come right down to it.”

He can feel the curve of her lips, feather light against his chest, her fingers crossing territory that bears witness of too many brushes with death already. Her voice, when she speaks, holds more than a hint of amusement, and he knows she ain't been fooled for a second by his clever change of subject. “Lives we live aren't safe. No promises from one day to the next. There's hardly a job that goes by without someone sustaining an injury in need of expert repair.”

He feels the laughing undertone of her words catching, can't help grinning back a bit as he reminds her, “And that's with us being fairly good at what we do.”

“Might go a bit easier without all the thrilling heroics,” she says, reproach and admiration both in her voice. “Point stands, though. Statistically, none of us are likely to live a natural span of years. We all have to die sometime.” He can feel her hand, warm against his skin, pressed low over the scar he'd gotten in her service. “But I promise you one thing, Mal.”

He looks down at her there in his arms, and it hits him with an almost physical force, what she could become to him. Freedom, family, home – everything in the 'verse worth fighting for, staring up at him through her eyes. “What's that, darlin'?”

She smiles, and he knows clear as if she'd said so that she's read that particular thought perfectly well. “As long as you're with me, you'll die with your hands unbound. You'll die free, even if it means we die together.”

After that, he's got to show her what those hands can do unbound, cause all the words in the 'verse wouldn't tell her enough of his love.

~ _fin_ ~


End file.
